on the 11th hour of the 11th day …

field in spring 001

No Man’s Land

night falls
on concrete walls

beside the barricades

it tumbles down with a thud
like a brick falls into mud

she who hides amidst the ruins
gathers up handfuls
of the dusk

hides them in her pocket

pieces of a childish truth
to silence the lies of men

their guns and bombs

tangled wire

screaming death
crimson fire

then

she scribbles with a piece of char
on grey cement

outlines of a half remembered game

skips

plays

dies out her living days.

~John Holland~

Posted on 11/11/2015 by Catherine
Like it?Share it!
  • Nicci Carrera

    I love this poem. Thanks for posting.

Books now available on Amazon: