Chips of light spattered shadows on our tide
Whose receding fingers clawed our shores,
And scraped out slots like graves upon our sand.
A far-off signal flared and sputtering fell,
Its bloom of sparks splashed deep in slate,
But, like our last edition, came too late.
The drumming bursts of broken cannons
Stomped along the edges of our patios,
And faded far beyond our headlines,
Until all we knew of want or wish or war
Were the screams of children drowned
Beyond our gilded sand, our evergreen horizon.
Anyone got a photo of Pinch's home(s) (Kellers?) to post on the net, including addresses and security details?
Posted by: RKV at July 5, 2006 7:39 AM"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated to combat spam and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.