There was no poetry in it.

At first.

The sunshine on the hay bales

Was still beautiful

And fields rolling

Towards the skyline

Was beautiful

And my boys faces

Beautiful.

But these beautiful things

Caused such pain.

And there was no poetry.

Only the same word

Relentlessly

Repeating

Over and over.

There was no poetry.

But beauty

And pain.

 

By Fiona Lochhead  December 20th  2015

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