Attic Room Poem by Mark Heathcote
Attic Room
Through a narrow doorway, turning left
I was dumped and placed in the attic room
the linen white was crisply pressed
and a crucified Christ hung bereft
silver dappled draped a shining moon
how-clear I still remember the sorrow
of that little attic room, within me
it's darkness like a shining barrow
gloom, waiting to be lifted, freed esprit.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/25/2024 10:57:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
