Categories: poetry-2
Date: 05 June 2011 14:03:09
I found this poem in an old notebook. I think I wrote it on Iona, but I have no idea why. UNTIL WE ARE GROWN My GOD it hurts us to let go. Fingers bloody, we cling for dear life to what we thought was ours. And scream ourselves hoarse As our precious things are lifted away. Eventually we are silent again. Though we won't even look at them, for DAYS, A new pair of shoes is before us, Brightly wrapped. Once they're too small, these will be taken from us too. But maybe it's worth trying them on.