 |
| 'Moors', by Lucy Loomis |
Like a manic fighter pilot out for bodies,
The wind
mercilessly bombed the cabin
That was the
walker’s sanctuary.
Sudden
gusts, like small explosions,
Kicked their
weight at the door.
Howls, from
wind-tortured things,
Hovered
above the moor outside.
The rain, in
deadly profusion,
Lashed down
its killing-knives.
He looked
through a measly window
Which framed
a lonely picture.
There were
no trees to shield.
No places to
escape.
Impelled by
his small-time solitude,
He sunk deep
inside himself,
And soon
fell asleep on the hard floor.
He dreamt of
the siege outside...
Blow!
Blow! Take this meagre frame
And throw
it into the sky!
No comments:
Post a Comment