These eye’s now laid on natures wings
have seen the sum of hateful things,
enough that English Winter Skies
as Pale as death cannot disguise
the salty sorrow in a tear,
encroaching nightmares ever near.
An empty voice shocked free from words
which when it speaks is never heard.
Yet by the River from the hide
I saw a bird and almost cried,
as through its feathered curtain shone
a thousand faces dead and gone.
© Wolfgar 2019