Nightingale, Herrick 15


I turned to watch,
Felt blasting wind
And Thumper noise
As Pedro left.
Hammerhead swirling, ascending,
Lost to darkened gloom,
To quiet, stillness and peace.

And there remained, suspended,
A lonely cloud of dust.
Afghan brown.
Drifting, slowly,
As though by Angels carried,
Across the tented crowd.

Here not to chide.
For cruelty and waste,
For friends in bags
Or Hacksaw limbs.
For little sisters
three now two.

Nor to praise.
For care or salvation,
Selfless given,
To sons and Ugly foe alike.
Nor for sanctuary of sterile wards
Or caring words.

But to remind,
Of something lost.
A gentle spectre.
In brief seconds gone,
To fall
To earth, and dust, and mud.
Thank you Ernest, I shed a tear reading that.

Then proceeded to cough up bile.
That was Gayer than cum in a moustache

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