a week ago
when the piercing clarity of the moon sang
graphite harmonies, sweeping across the silent hills
before we discovered that tiny, blotted bundle
of eternity in the field behind your house
before the piercing violence of your scream
split the charcoal night
as you peeled back the hessian shroud
revealing a tiny face
with eyes dreaming of forever.
Stuart Buck
Llanarmon DC
Wales
stuartmbuck@hotmail.com
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