A poem – The Appeal

The Appeal 

Movement in the semi lighted wood.

A black cloak, Scythe in hand,
Seeks the last embers of life.

A woman,
Eyes closing, pulse fading.

A little girl by her side,
A newborn mewling between bloody thighs.

The long shadow, bereft of warmth,
Covers them all.

The girl looks up,
Plucks a blood red flower.

Eyes wide, she raises it up,
Colour set against monochrome and shadow.

Death pauses, looks down,
Refusing the appeal.

September 2013 – Helen A Quinn


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