by whose ancient bosom,
flew the jackdaw in dawn’s half-light, of gentle suppleness,
who lay hand of foreign hand within each morn’s awakening:
blood of blood , flesh of flesh of which pale cheeks partook,
and still which rest amongst the skulls of the fallen,
whose cry sails upon each secret mist,
which raps itself around,
the streets and highways , and all the folk therein ...
what majesty is this which on a childish sport resides
eternal the yoke of gleeful humanhood,
what poison drank she that her womb lies desolate amidst the glories of
her eyes , dulled by silent inessence;
what leaves are turned to ashes by electric lighting,
which illumines the mausoleum of the rotting,
and sets the soul in rigor mortis?
Harry Blanchard was born near Liverpool, England in 1996. Having written from an early age, he is now a student of theology whose interests include bell-ringing and canoeing.