Gene Murphy Writer

Cocooned within our Welsh Tin Can,

rain pings

like shrapnel

into a twice run church collection.

You sleep cotton packaged,

apocalypse prepared,

weather protected,

unafraid.

Outside,

soaked Welsh moors

entertain raw elements and

pinned farm animals bound for new day slaughter.

They dance knowingly as heaven waits for them,

while you dream of summer under the crying night sky.

-end-

all words are mine. if you enjoyed the piece, let me know.

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