Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Samuel Fisher

More in Sorrow than in Anger

A woman with child, an up-hill struggle –
Pushing a pram with one turned-in wheel.

Her children have run ahead –
Rocks are red on the bank of a bridge head stream –
Her children stumble upon the scene - a lurid dream…

Slim blue cotton shirt water colour mixed –
Plum rinsed minute pebbles mantling his toes –
Missing one shoe, one sock, one life,
His hair an awful polish black roofed by fallen reeds.
His finger nails are dirty.
His pants are by his knees.

  Before the rush
Of a sobering on-coming headlight morning,
A man held out his hands clasping far off trees –
Clutching their straw trunks, clawing nothing but thin air –
Cursing the wind wetting his cries –
Droplets of warm saliva like sails tossed in laden rain.

  Before the rush,
He scuffed at the prickly stone cut crossing,
Paining his knees as he knelt to pray on the verge.
Shut his eyes and thought only of himself.
So through the sky he fell.

And there he lies –
Yet now her children know they have their father’s eyes.


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