Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Bones Under A Bridge

Tiny pile of bones
under a bridge
you were found out;
talked to the hawk,
or a murder of crows.

Maybe your first love,
the one that found you
in flagrante
set you up,
or the second, the witness,
who heard your infidelity.

Selfish and faithless, you will be alone.
The bridge won’t help.
We celebrate
bones ‘neath the bridge.
You were fond of saying,

‘No one cares.’

Polly Stretton © 2017

 

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