This is a reworking of a poem, Invisible, that appeared in my Stone Witness collection (2017). Whereas the original version was written in free verse and was rather more lengthy, the poem below is basically a rhyming precis of its predecessor.
THAT'S LIFE
Faces lean in, make sounds, then move away:
they hover like great birds above the cot
where he lies swaddled. Nothing that they say
makes sense. He is an infant. It’s Year Dot.
So it begins. Time hurries on. That’s life.
He lies in a red room. Faces lean in,
make sounds. Nothing makes sense. Pain wields its knife.
It’s Year Ninety. Ice settles on his skin.
For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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