Thunderclap Newman

Grim tidings resurrect the past.
Thunderclap is dead. We'd watched
His fingers dance the keys, announcing
Something's in the air. It couldn't
Last, but we believed, our flower
Chains around our necks, our acid-
Addled minds convinced that all
We'd ever need was love. We sat
Beside our fires, singing softly
In the fading light, as waves rolled
In upon the beach. We shared our
Blankets and our bread, and felt
It: something in the air. But then
The grim-faced men arrived,
And truncheons thumped us
On to this, to “Find your own
Bread; this is mine,” The night
Arrived. The air grew cold, and
Thunderclap no longer played.
The days of love had passed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 69 times
Written on 2016-04-01 at 14:25

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