These eyes now laid on natures’ wings
have seen the sum of hateful things,
enough that English Winter Skies
as Pale as death cannot disguise
the salty sorrow in a tear,
intrusive nightmares ever near.
An empty voice shocked free from words
which when it speaks is never heard.
Yet by the River from the hide
I saw a bird and almost cried,
as through its feathered curtain shone
a thousand faces dead and gone.
(Visited 1 times, 1 visits today)
