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War Poetry
Richard Y. Ball, 'Foreboding' 
13th-Feb-2017 01:00 am
Duath
Foreboding

I once lived.
A Lowry or Brueghel;
A stream cascading over rocks;
A glass of champagne;
Palpitations in a lover’s arms;
A sunset’s palette;
A mayfly, dancing over a pond.

I am, now.
A Malevich or Rauschenberg;
An autumn afternoon;
A cup of tepid tea;
Parkinson’s face:
An affect like the pond’s surface,
Coated in winter’s rind.

I still wait.
He left for war:
Duty and comrades to share,
But no thought of danger.
I fulfil that role,
Apprehensive of the postman’s knock,
The telephone’s call.

By Richard Y. Ball
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