Christie Shary

Poetry - Gray Day in Poland

Gray Day in Poland

The winter sky,
It is the same gray as
The soot from the chimneys of
Shrapnel-pocked buildings,
The black barren silhouettes of
Beechwood trees stark against them.

Snow falls on the river,
Sinks into the murky water.
Some sticks to the sidewalk,
Absorbs the soot,
Seeps over rubber high-topped boots
As they plow through snow mounts
On street corners.

The air is chilling and bitter,
Cutting through woolen coats
And wooly Cossack hats
Like a swift silver blade,
Biting at the dull, sad faces
Of the people.

People whose faces reflect
Too many years of Hitler,
Communism, Oppression,
Never a smile, or a nod.
Facing forever downward
Toward the ground.

The farmland, too, is a
Flat dark gray.
Surrounded by gray decaying villages,
Mildewed haystacks.
Sunken-eyed prostitutes please for
Favors near the border.
Yet the first green of winter wheat
Pokes through the dark earth,
And finally there is hope.