By 18th June 2009December 9th, 2019No Comments

Night on the cold plain,
invisible sands lift,
peripheral shadows stir,

space between light and dark
shrouding secrets;
old trades draped grey.

Here too poppies fall,
petals blown on broken ground
seeds scattered on stone

and this bright bloom,
newly cropped,
leaves pale remains

fresh lines cut;
the old sickle wind
sharp as yesterday.

John Hawkhead

Author John Hawkhead

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