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There it stands, desolate and alone That roofless shell where the winds Still whisper of the past When scampering children's squeals And wheeling seabirds' cries Rose thinly through the air. A thatched croft from which a healthy living was scraped A shirt-sleeved man, braces showing, Bald pate bunneted against the sun, Bent over to tend his plot An aproned woman cheerfully shooing away the hens To collect the eggs for the evening meal Beside a silvery sea stretching To the horizon Hiding the city lights and its imagined pleasures Until those dreams drew the young away Watched sadly by the elderly pair Their exodus damning The island to its desolation Where still the birds' cries squeal And the wind through the grass softly whispers Surrounding the now silent croft In the salt sharp air What homely pleasures such a life once offered Now the graveyard of fading memories While the once busy city streets Stand empty drained of life As the virus continues to take its toll

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020

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Date: 10/22/2020 7:56:00 AM
Wow, Denis, what an amazing, poignant poem. It is well-developed with homespun images, and a stark ending!
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denis bruce
Date: 10/22/2020 8:37:00 AM
Carol, Thank you so much for your kind and gracious comments. I am pleased to read that it has left a powerful impression on you. Thank you again for taking the time to read this poem.