against November’s deepening gloom

across the shires on high crag altars,

Fan Foel, High Willhays, Mickle Fell, 

Dunkery Beacon to Ronas Hill,   

mourning mothers are lighting candles,       

sacrificing psalms, hymns, chants, ghazals,   

sorrowful songs and heart-wrench prayers

to the pantheon of deities                    

for winter’s drab blanket to lie deep,

and cold and bitter winds keep remnant

sons indoors, safe from spite-fuelled wounding –  

a lull until spring’s awakening,

when thawing will banish snow away,

flushing both gutters and pavements clean,

again, of hard-dried life-blood staining. 


© coolhermit 2020
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critique and comments welcome.

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Spiritual and as hard as life in equal measure. I have a feeling there is an interesting story behind these words.


Quite scene you paint with a grim backstory. I wonder for those unfamiliar with the specific cause of the grieving if you could have slipped in some info. somewhere in the poem or in an author’s note. I’m finding ‘remnant’ odd in its usage here.
Regards, Gerald.

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