Some days there are those gusts of gloom,
Laced with the nagging smell of grief,
Which gathers clouds with gnashing teeth
That darken each uncrowded room.
–
Down the sheets of dark descend
To stun outstretched, unshaken hand.
Quick– slam the doors to neighbours’ land
And chill the warm embrace of friends.
–
Some days you ask the darkness in
Through the anxious scrolling thumb.
The graver news that always comes
weighs on your soul, deep under skin.
–
But kindled there, the fire of hope
That punches holes in sheeted dark.
It’s sparked by aching, beating hearts
And fanned by hands of bathroom soap.
–
Though it’s no war; Dunkirk nor Blitz,
We fight these battles where we can.
But let’s give one empty, peaceful hand
To grow where our compassion sits.
Uncultured Review 