Emily

Wet hair,
coarse and auburn.
Dark rain,
and moor swept air.
Cold hands,
white and dead.
Like all the youth
that once was there.

The bell tower rings
for nobody's ear.
Smoke rises up
in a perfect line.
The moor swept air
skims a long grey lake.
Weak white hands
with no hand to take.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.