Snarl by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

She sits before a roaring spitting fire,
witters on about her bumbling vision,
while outside the Westminster bubble
twenty souls buy the everlasting bus,
go from living rough enough, to dying
against church doors, car park walls,
hidden alleyways and shopping malls.
Cruel uninvited guest, white death calls,
but moon howls, and the grey wolf snarls.

View original post

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.