Christabel McCooey Poems

The one who knit me in the womb,
Who counts the hairs upon my head,
Who rests his hands upon my shoulder, warm,
Who breathes in the nape of my neck.
...

The blaring lights, the gritty air,
The screeching breaks, the rage declared,
Yet in these busy London streets,
I hear the voice of history speak.
...

Languid misery, grey decay,
Sneering fools with endless pay,
These suit clad beings,
Ensnare the heart,
...