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Read More‘Is it tonight?’‘Yes.’‘Why?’She didn’t answer. Instead, she cut off the call. I stuffed my phone into my back pocket and entered the forest. Treading the path that I had trodden so many times before. The looped path. The path...
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Read MoreI saw her crying in Tom Planter’s field,The blonde-haired girl in black nobody knows,Her eyes were hollowed out, her raw lips peeled,She wore a silver bullring through her nose.She bore the scars of herbicidal birth,The effluent she drank from...
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Thank you so much, Al, trying to shake the world, especially Donald, out of his madness seems incredibly out of our reach, but we must never cease trying. HJ
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Haunting imagery, Harriet-Jacqui. They once showed images from somewhere in Africa, MOUNTAINS of stinking rubbish the French dumped there. And each year those mountains grow bigger. It’s awful people there have to live like that, with no possibility of somehow reducing that pile, as there are no waste burning factories in that place.
Beautiful poem.
Al