Poetry

Reposed

By 19th February 2014December 9th, 2019No Comments

In tattered robes didst lie face down in sand
A choice one makes with nowhere left to run
I’d noticed him when gaining upper hand
Now ‘playing possum’ ‘neath the baking sun
I gauged his years could all but total ten
Whilst posing prone, no movement did I see
Yet here he was in midst of war with MEN
Should I engage, or choose to let him be
“This is his land” I hear my conscience call
When shadows play across his form; I freeze
I try to make up ground in urgent crawl
Tho’ wary of known threat from IEDs
As Buzzards screech and hover up above
My hopes as always, lie within the Dove

Richard Gildea

Author Richard Gildea

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