• Your neighbourhood poet


A paler poison there could not be; if only

We could see the little grey left

In midsummer skies, they’d come back to us.

The children of the night. Traces scorned

Of a disappearing tongue, buried beneath

The cloying undergrowth; the leaves remain

Distilled in memory of a clan, of a clan that lived here

And was washed ashore when dead. If only

The colours were a soulless black, darkness silenced

Until broken; the lord of light astute

Brings me vain conviction, slivers slight as the moon withheld

Of hope. I will forgive them a thousand times over,

Sin erased from the whitest of folds.

Night’s children, rebirthed at dawn.

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