The fruits fall all December,
flesh pulled soft across each skull,
at dawn a feast for gingy-flies.
It’s the kind of mid-January afternoon—
the sky as calm as an empty bed,
black Angus finally sitting down to chew—
Paradise – Emilie Buchwald
We were waiting for a train in the echoing underground.
I was thirteen. He was old, a family friend, a refugee from another century.
The Gestapo hammered at his front door with the order for his arrest
Love – Rupert Brooke
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;