Freedom At Last

Flames raged in the cornfields around it,

Bobbing there in stagnant waters

Tethered to a solid mooring post

With a thick, coarse rope.

Each spark from the furnace

A risk to its rotting timbers

As it took hold and smouldered

And smoked and spread

Oars crossed and laid on its floor

And the spattered markings of crows

Bleaching spots of ...

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In Memoriam

The gravestones in this place are wet with tears

Of children, wives and husbands who have stood

Beside dark holes that swallow up their fears

Replacing ice water where once flowed blood.

November skies are grey and hold no lights,

The flowers flattened in a winter gale

That whips away dark thoughts the widow fights

To keep hidden behind her mourning veil.

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