The thinner spectre of the two, pale, serene and half in shadow, from the creases of the curtain, floats a plaintive lullaby - her song for sleepless children. "This plastic fort for painted cowboys. This tepee for a brave. This mountain range of books to read - ['The Kid took the reins and the … Continue reading Her Song For Sleepless Children.
Last night, they sang hymns in Kiev; this morning, they sandbag the malls. Saturday, schoolboys with rifles. Sunday, late shoppers man the walls. The sky burns bright - pale blue to blush to red - obliterates the stars. Commuters, to the metro rush; but no buses, no trains, no cars... come, unfriendly bombs, rain fire … Continue reading They Sang Hymns
The longbow, the instruction in and of, was once integral to (I've read in books) a young man's education. Knights, old by half my age, with knotted fingers, eyes faded, would lead the jacks to the quiet wood, the wild boar acre, where the yew trees grow, where centurions and vikings before drew blood, marking … Continue reading Where The Yew Trees Grow.
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