Up there with the smoke from a million chimney pots
They lived, their nighties smudged with specks of soot,
Weeping over your every sin, trotting
With you to school, inches above the ground, foot
Soldiers of the Lord.
Somehow yours sat beside you at your desk, unseen,
His cloud-soft wings closed like a prayer book,
Watching you mis-spell and stumble over words -
Your shadow, sewn to your feet,
Heavenly butterfly,
Guardian of your seven-year soul.
- Poem written by Mike Harding.
View User's Journal
Matt's journal.
Don't know how often I plan to write in here, but what's the harm?