Friday, September 6, 2013

And Hope to Die

White marble crosses 
No rosy fingers 

A slate-gray sky. 


  1. The metre here: those four last steady syllables writing off the Homeric dawn.

    I imagine a war cemetery.

  2. Thanks, Duncan; as for the "war" cemetery, could very well have been but in this case it was the local congested one caught very early one morning as I rode slowly by on my bicycle.


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