Poet's Corner

Twisted on the battlefields

Of my mind.

Each night its sharp curses

Bayonet my soul.

Hacking my rest into a million pieces,

Sometimes I enter

The dark islands of eyelessness,

Where I see war and death

Ride upon their awesome

Black stallions,

And laugh above the fields

Of the slain;

While I weep and preach for forgiveness.

But still

I hear the voice

Of my black-boned

Brother crying out

For the life I denied him;

Crying out for vengeance

Amid the stench

Of flame devoured flesh. By Gerard A Groves

Nevis Grove

Astley Bridge

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Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.