If I was my mother,
and you were a horse,
I would not wrap the lead
into my fist
as we walk the track
with their ruined nissan huts
patch up by ivy,
so we can’t see through
the hollow sockets
of broken windows
to the emptiness inside,
always emptiness inside,
and always me with a fist
of lead
to draw you closer
to heel
in case the emptiness
is not what it seems.
I could sleep here,
belly warm against the stone
arms splayed,
wings,
bent at the elbows,
reaching
perhaps to hold
but for now still,
warm,
cheek pressed to rock
sun baked,
lazy,
stubbornly forgotten
long ago
when this place was ice
long from melting.
View From The Top Of Snowdon – By Carol J Forrester
Since there is no Quadrille night this Monday over at DVersePoets I thought I’d write one inspired by my recent trip to Snowdonia National Park. The views were utterly stunning and it really does feel like you’re escaping the modern world.
A Quadrille is a poem written in exactly 44 words. The DVerse Poets Pub runs a fortnightly Quadrille prompt for those who fancy having a go in the company of some wonderful fellow blogger/poets.
Carol J Forrester 
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