sculpture (Remove filter)
Le Grisou
On winter days, with frosted breath,
We wander to the warm, great hall
To see this sacred scene once more.
A mother mourns her perished son,
As mothers do across the world,
While washed-up men, most often old,
Pick off the innocent for sport.
Grouped women, tethered in their grief,
Mop up the personal effects,
Doused in their humid, sodden tears.
Soon, beyond anger, b...
Saturday 11th January 2025 9:34 am
Recent Comments
Nigel Astell on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
2 hours ago
John Coopey on I SHANâT ALWAYS BE LOVELY
4 hours ago
John F Keane on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
6 hours ago
John F Keane on A Cut Above
6 hours ago
Uilleam Ă Ceallaigh on I SHANâT ALWAYS BE LOVELY
8 hours ago
Mike McPeek on Fallen Leaf
12 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on The Forgotten
13 hours ago
Rolph David on Sonnet: Imigh Hotovely, Imigh SmĂĄl Damnaithe! Imigh is PĂłg mo ThĂłin! [Out Hotovely, Out Damned Spot! Out and Kiss my Arse!]
14 hours ago
Uilleam Ă Ceallaigh on His Majestyâs Stay Out of Hell Cards: âDivine Rightâ and âConventionâ
15 hours ago
HélÚne on Elementary
15 hours ago