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Iceland 2016 94

A meal eaten in haste – dry bread and bitter herbs, standing clothed and shod, gripping walking sticks. We are prepared for the anything, everything – anticipating the starter pistol’s sharp report, yearning for the open road, whilst apprehension lingers just beyond the door in the old copper penny smells of spattered blood… and Shadow blackens the night, pursued by rising wails…


the wide road beckons
onward to freedom. Behind
doors like bloodstained mouths, screaming
for innocence slain, the People
await the passing of Death

(Actually, yes, my imagination DID keep me up nights as a child. Why do you ask?)

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