AUGUST POETRY

WE FELL

By

Anne Bradshaw

We fell.

Somewhere between the gaps of the dreams

of what we thought we were,

we fell.

Like a couple of empty vessels,

dark spoils laid waste on the tide,

washed up in salt with bones raw as guilt,

in terrible silence we fell.

No star-crossed lovers ever felt

this stream of  endless pain,

an Icarus warning of things to come,

slowly but certain we fell.

Looking within, or looking without,

yet neither matters now,

the emptiness is what defines

the day that we fell.

ON FALLOW FIELD

By

Anne Bradshaw

Last night she slept on fallow field

where ridges dip to earth then rise

towards the misty, moonlit skies,

yet cannot bear their secret yield.

Her breath will never kiss the dawn;

her body pales, while silver dew

adorns her skin with pearly hue;

her soul is mine, and all forlorn.

As love, with all its fatal flaws,

does so entrance by false design,

she conjured tricks upon my mind:

my Sorceress, all peace withdraws.

With Cornflowers traced upon her brow,

the Devil’s Bit and Campion

dress flaxen hair, all locks undone,

near faded Poppies’ crimson vow.

So wake then, people, know this day.

Seize cold treasure, hold the prize

which never yet bewitched your eyes,

but drew my empty heart away.