The cold of death.
There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.
rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.
Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.
Where home-grown ropes are sewn.
Where moral justification is two-tone.
Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.
It was cold there, underwater.
She’s another innocent man’s daughter.
© G.P Williamson 2017