There's a freeze-frame of a dream,
a still image, minus the haze,
that my uncle showed me as a kid.

He said
it was him who watched the parade veer towards him,
him who clutched his fragile cross
to stave the towering procession back.

All he remembers are the legs,
marching, spindly, like a little forest
with hooves, not roots.

It's only now, staring at his still-frame,
that he remembers what they carried.

Only now that he shudders
as the warm soft of bodies waft to him
from across the plain.
A glint of gold and grandeur stone:
not enough to distract him
from the canopy of bellies.

------- Author's Notes -------

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