Four Poems

A Field

There’s nothing more moving than a field
with baby things springing up
between stones and parched earth,
opening their thirsty mouths
to the heavens.
Washed out, bright pale,
they smile out from heaped earth
damp from the rain
like babies on black breasts.

Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.