by pete marshall
Cobbled stones that lead unto
a granite wall & iron rails,
death would walk 'mongst weeping cries
beyond the gates of Bodmin gaol.
A smile that pulls past ragged teeth
bestows a child with ashen hair
who walks past rows of sullen homes,
dampened cells & stifled air.
Rights are called on bastard thieves
who stole a hunk from bakers fayre.
Alone she sat beyond reproach
yet fairies brought her food to share.
For troubled times begin to brew
as torches burn in hate filled streets,
the hangman bows upon a door
that opens forth past 13 feet.
Having just returned from visiting so many wonderful sites in Cornwall, this poem has been inspired after my first ever visit to Bodmin Gaol, and perhaps the troubled times we are currently envisaging.
This is also shared with Dverse
image courtesy creative commons flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/dennyboy/