Tuesday 11 October 2011

Marching

I looked up in drizzle
to see the far hills;
knuckles of a fist inching forward
as I walked

And in the lowing grey
a mourning moon rested 
her hymnbook under 
that famous round chin,

then dropped it to shine
unexpectedly,
like the outbreak of laughter at a wake
or the fast march home from war. 

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