Writing in Ice
It gets harder to claim
the lie of few summers lived
when so many winters
have taken their toll.
The deceiver fools you.
More fool you.
Writing in ice on frozen bone
contusions of ruptured words,
mortality’s wounds
on the immortal soul.
The reaver robs you.
Poor robbed you.
Outside the Cathedral.
Outside the castle,
the social housing schemes,
the frontline, prison,
the bar room or the public school.
In broad daylight
the deceivers rob you.
Blind
the reavers fool you.