A Metaphysical Poem

When first I try

to take your white hills,

little pink soldiers

stiffen and rise

to defend your

topmost honour.

 

But your hills

being soon

surrendered and

in my hands,

I go to mine

with my engine

deep below,

where another

little pink man

of yours only

stands by,

turning traitor.

 

Julian O’Dea

 

 

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4 responses to this post.

  1. One of those evenings again.

    Reply

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