contemporary poetry

and so it goes
truely
in the cloud-gray mornings
night is dark, and the winter winds
the old west, the old time
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
doubtless i remember still
glass-blower of time
through the broad earth's aching breast
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
he speaks not well
daughter, thou art come to die