Bloom
in rivers of right they spawn
eggs already torn and bent
that grow deprived of dawn
to salve and heal their rent
and battered by a rusty flail
to a state not unlike trance
a polka spinning them pale
to a hapless agony of dance
chalking symbols onto slate
a scratch makes evil mute,
silent observances of hate
doomed flora lacking root
sometimes they...
Friday 11th June 2021 2:49 pm
The Land
Sitting to the east
Sloping down to the edge
Of that other world
In the summer sun
In the winter chill
The sentinel watched over
The little family in the cottage in the hollow
Lately it had felt her sorrow
It knew when she left Pant y Lleiniau
And walked slowly along the cart track
To reach the little bridge under the trees
Where she crossed Nant yr Efail ...
Wednesday 10th July 2019 5:20 pm
Recent Comments
M.C. Newberry on Pot Shots
1 hour ago
M.C. Newberry on People Like Us
1 hour ago
John Marks on People Like Us
3 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on IF THEY COME
3 hours ago
Hélène on People Like Us
7 hours ago
Manish Singh Rajput on People Like Us
7 hours ago
Adam Whitworth on We’ve been there.
8 hours ago
Rasa Kabaila on The Self-Fulfilled Prophecy
22 hours ago
Reggie's Ghost on A bad move having a meal out with a mate!!
1 day ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on The Celtic sea /
1 day ago