Letters From Home.
Bleak heavens overbear this roiling ship
As on a rail, does know its destiny
Quick as truth let loose from cast-off lover’s lips
Parts great tidal mounds and speeds her way
I recollect my precious little child
Abandoned now to its maternal care
How I will miss her innocent sweet smile
And send my wishes to her on the air.
Four black horses straineth hard in April’s mud
Their polished carriage wheels are firmly trapped.
In Waterloo’s cold soil still rust with blood
war souvenir’s, a cap, an inexpensive map,
A sword plucked from a Nero’s grasping hand.
Sent home, with mock disdain, to England's
shores, that feed me now with news as mother’s
milk poisoned by myself in accident.
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