Friday, 14 May 2010

Nuncle by Helen Pletts

Nuncle

If I am his
Then Sadness is
My cloak.

He gets me down.
Even the bells frown,
as he hobbles at my side.

My shoes
are over-twisted curlicues.
He cramps my style

And in his grey beard, the hopeless
Hollow out all care for laughter,
Backwards in the face of Gloucester.

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