Anyway the thought is there all the time and the discipline of writing a poem every day is great idea. Not that they will be any good but it's good practice.
Monday 8th April
Snow falls on her morning path.
She wipes away her tears
with her glove. Thinks that
April is a cruel month
until the news breaks.
Her thoughts hurtle back
33 years - her first vote.
Career choices made
because of a disrupted world
and heartless politics.
She wipes away her tears
with an oven glove. Tries
to explain broken towns
and the jobless to her
growing daughter.
No comments:
Post a Comment