Black Cross
By ralph
Mon, 04 May 2009
- 1080 reads
1 comments
The diggers at Black cross.
Patiently waiting.
For a wreckage of grief,
winding its reason,
hilltop bound.
Ache of the slow tear,
damping,
a family’s,
wild red curly hair.
Across fields to the graveside,
wind whispering shrill.
The waltz of fading bluebells,
bend this season,
to her end.
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Comments
Thanks for your encouraging
Thanks for your encouraging email, you have an amazing talent to!
k.
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