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
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
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.
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