THE SUNDAY SINGER OILS HER VOICE

A small poem for starters:

the sunday singer

oils her voice

all of saturday

after midnight chimes

you can hear her sing

as if all was right with this world

monday morning 

brings the usual sorrows

The poem wrote itself on Saturday. No idea where it came from.
On Tuesday I met with The Secret Poets once again and I am grateful for their assistance with this rewrite. You can read the other version here.

The Sniper’s Dilemma

for Colin

He is still paying our bill,

you can see it in his eyes,

Goose Green to Belfast

and more places in between.

How does a man who cares

steer his heart through such times?

Focus on the practical,

strip and reassemble what you can

with eyes closed in the dark

and repeat for Queen and country.

Part of him is always there on that cold island,

reflecting on what they told him,

the target or two of ours.

In the blackness of this sleepless night

he hears those words again:

two of ours or him.

Whats changed? The last line has gone, the third stanza has been altered [hopefully to make it read more clearly] and the first stanza has lost it's final line.
It is my small tribute to a friend.

Here's a song by Liz Lawrence. 

Until next time.