The Country of Peaceful Death

Scarring sunlight gleams and bulging
acrid grapes, sweating marrow,
sheen ungodly and profusely
in the country of peaceful death.

My new motor-powered hearse
covers the distance, hillside town
to smokestacks - powdery red.
An uncanny, potent aroma of combustion,
yet the green outside ages in dirt.

Since times of old the cypress
enjoyed the company of youths
once their mothers could no more:
he now stretches up like a flesh beacon
at Three Corners, grasping a milestone.