Barren Reach

A wee poem 


Lying between the margin and the salt-rime,
A gather of clouds, marbled grey.
Here history was wrought,
The will of man played out, 
Each step a turning point.
And now? What does this barren reach expect?
A restful peace – a century of sleep before it’s done?  

© e-griff 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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Is it ever going to be ‘done’….. I like this a lot John, Hastings I presume?


I liked the tight metering of the middle three lines; they give the poem a feeling of action and momentum. The reflectiveness of the last two lines nicely anticipates the reader’s as the pace is slowed in the concluding questions. A nice, evocative little piece. Shywolf


I simply enjoyed the write without feeling the need to analyse it.

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