The Moor's Atomic Deaths

That day was an open coffin.

We counted five real-dead sheep.

Each rotted in its own silence

And the noise of flies 

Which consumed leftovers of flesh.

Nature’s song must keep going.

Death?

It fed the scavengers 
Aboard that day’s moor.

It taught the anthropopoets

The lessons they had to learn.

Life?

Nothing but the rented hours

Of the hunted and crippled,
The dead and the dying.

Why mourn these atomic deaths?

What do the deaths mean?

Sure, the day’s body-count was high.

But that didn't cause a flicker 
In distant hearts.

Even the mothers’ cries 
Echoed into the hills,

To merge with the perfect silence.