(for percy)
a gentle art
led the eleventh child
of a shoemaker
into a shattered swamp
of hobnailed soles
and horse shoe heels.
it was there
he dreamt of myrtle,
her lips her waist,
as he soaked
his feet in cool pits
of brains and water.
mud was a strange lover
and the fog
when it came
smelled for all the world
like lilies of the valley.
© meredi o
5 responses so far ↓
1 warthog // Mar 4, 2008 at 10:39 am
nice composition. haven’t a clue what you are on about.
2 squib // Mar 4, 2008 at 10:41 am
thanks, I think
clue: WW1
3 warthog // Mar 4, 2008 at 11:50 am
Oh gosh, that’s so sad.
4 Boo Radley // Mar 5, 2008 at 3:08 pm
Excellent poem.
Spells out the pointless waste of life that WW1 was.
5 squib // Mar 5, 2008 at 5:08 pm
Hello Boo and thanks
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