The Permanent Departures

This silent elegy is fashioned 

from bones dissolved in a sanguine summer field,

and bits of cold metal rusting in a pallid rain,

stitched idly by spider webs and thick bird's nests, 

these ancient, lurking ruins. 

Or torn seat fabric singed with black flame,

now half-submerged in the reedy bog,

the once sun-shimmer of seatbelt buckles

now rubbed and scratched bare 

beneath these patient currents. 

Here, where the news crews trampled 

their way to the grimmest of scoops,

where dazed passengers wandered 

bloodied and torn-clothed in the grass, 

shrieking, batting at halos of sparks 

in their tangled hair,

there's still jet fuel staining the land,

a harrowing old memorial.