From the Rage Online newsdesk Saturday, January 1st, 2000  

Her voice rang out in tears, but the wife of Davis had not heard a thing,
No messenger brought the truth of how her husband made his stand inside
Ashton Gate, She was weaving at her loom, deep in the high halls,
Working Tim Flower’s braiding into a dark yellow folding robe,
And she called her well-kempt women through the changing room to set a
large three-legged cauldron over the fire so Davis could have his steaming
hot bath when he came home from Northwich – poor woman – she had never
dreamed how far he was from Reading, Struck down at Anthrobus’s hands by
blazing-eyed Athena,
But she heard the groans and wails of grief from the London Road end now
and her body shook …….

James Dearnley

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 1st, 2000 at 12:00 am and appears under Crap Poetry. Both comments and pings are currently closed.

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