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Thursday, 17 November 2011


Dark humour is not everyone's cup of tea, but I'll give this a whirl......

He can see the blue flame,
the smell is burnt,

winter mugs the autumn

and dead sheep lie scattered.

Out in the snow are doomed lambs,
orphaned, starving to death,

the sound of their
weak cries carried off

by the bluster of winds.

Cold misery enters the room,
slow as a rested fox

to erase home comforts

and strain farmers’ faces.

Sat by the blue flame lamp,
irritated by fumes,

he observes the shotgun,

another winter choice
to pull the trigger

or have another crack at James Joyce

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