Poetry

May-82

By 1st January 2006December 9th, 2019No Comments

It rained,
and I heard it fall.
Maybe not every drop,
but almost all.

We cut the turf.
And stacked it high.
Two foot thick
and just as wide.

Rain ran down my face
while it filled the hole.
Soaked my clothes.
Washed my soul.

No gentle pitter-patter this,
it crashed.
The wind howled, and blew.
Bayonets slashed.

And all the while,
eight thousand miles away,
you cheered, got drunk, and slept,
in a cosy warm bed.

James Love

Author James Love

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