The sting of the wind
On this cold spring day Reminds me of my Ancestors who rode This same wind As they trudged to work On early shift.
This connection, now, is
In my blood Deep in what I mean When I say these words In tones that rhyme.
Words that would’ve
Carried meaning in those Hungry days When this same old Mottled sky’d Pleased the eye of Those infected with These old discontents.
So, in this frail copse
Of poplar trees and Hawthorn bushes A moment’s respite Is offered me As I watch these birds Swing into this ghost Ridden air
And, just for a
Moment, I’m not there. Powerful History Poems Knowledgeable take on Memory Resourceful verses on Old
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