Last words from the shore by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

The world saw

This apparently everyday scene

A child being held

Asleep perhaps? Unwell?

But, dead – really dead.

Looking at the scene of which I was a part.

Tomorrow: now, never comes.

And somehow the age will change

Against our canvas

Of our making

Cut in the devils playground

Somehow playgrounds

Devoid of this scene

That is our life

And his that fell short

Here the scene:

Whether landscape, portrait, or abstract

He’ll never this out

Nor kick a ball, kiss, or read a book.

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