2nd and 3rd of the three poems - 1973

Daily.

Birds
flaunting the air.
Pebbles, like us
promiscuously touching
each other. The blind child
of three, living, living
sees not her daily shadow
behind her. Only the tyrant
watches, waiting to
seize the past by its scrawny throat,
mould it out of the future.

Evening.

Birds
fall down from the sky;
warm grass settles for less than light.
The child of three,
nightdressed once again,
closes her petals,
slopes like the shadows
over her island; dies
in cupped arms.
She has lived.
Still the tyrant wanders
through his dream black sleep.


After moving house, I discovered these verses, written by my late husband, in two huge chests, amongst masses of other 'writings'. I hope you will find them as interesting as I do........ more to come! I would welcome your comments.