The boy had pulled his hands up into his sleeves against the cold
I felt the wind he was receiving on his chin
And groaned. Nothing more now. Away.
The variety of pain is an anthology.
Deep, insolated, dark and distant
Were the feelings that haunted him
As he went about his everyday business
The sun shone, blinding him, Where was his
Friend, disappeared over the horizon, lost, lonely
Last, lost words stop short of my lips, if only
The eagle flew the nest
Wings spread wide, embracing the sky
Green bleeding out from broken water.
This is a collective poem from the Literary Potlatch, written by the participants on the day, with each of them only able to see the previous line. At present, the image accompanying it is a stock photo but we would really love someone to respond to the poem visually, as only an original image can possibly do it justice. Full credit will of course be given. Please email firstname.lastname@example.org if you’re interested in creating something special we can share. Thank you
For those of you who’ve been waiting patiently, my apologies – here’s the Medway Monday linky: