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Friday, 9 February 2018

The English Roses

The English Roses



Sun blistered ghosts of glass
do splinter-bleed my finger
nailed me to the past
where autumn leaves whisper.


Bullrush border frozen water. White
lily tremble and undulate. Brisk
breeze, clear sight hides night 
shade that light must risk.


Static sterile hours leaf shake
trees left barren and bare.
Just the ghost of love forsaken. 
Just a blink, glimpse of her.