Last night I dreamt

I walked through mists

of Woking’s fog bound

obelisks, I saw the homeless in

the streets with hands stretched

out in need of meat and so I

wandered to the Coign, placing

coppers on the plate, in hopes

that blessings may accrue to feed

the needy as they queue – or dossed

in damp dank sleeping bags – mere

waifs, gaunt-faced, like hunted stags.

I prayed a miracle awaits for those

impaled in dire straits, or couldn’t tap

into the state, like happier folk much

better placed. Or, as some may have it,

blessed by an unseen kind, of grace.






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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 29th Jan 2020 16:20

Very interesting. I presume you had a precise reason for not presenting it in couplets format, which I didn't immediately 'catch' to be honest, so clever you were. I finally 'tripped' over the association.

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