Poetry Blog by Greg Freeman (Painting)
The worst of the front was that trickle of rain
down the neck. Wet through, it felt like liberation.
And lice. Home on leave, people shunned him in trains.
Walled, hilltop village of his childhood:
as another war came, he returned to Barga.
Saw himself as immobile, a tree spreading roots.
When the Germans briefly retook his village
one self-portrait was damaged. The ...
Saturday 21st January 2012 5:51 pm
- 2012 (1)
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