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||Edwin Drood's Column
||15 December 2015
|The Drood has disappeared once more into the winter mists which surround the Belgae.|
Luckily, Hugh Featherstone is at hand, ready, able and willing to share a poem with us.
what shall I feed them
who now have only crumbs?
The doves that gathered once to me
are gone, the heart's bright halls become
the sinister domain of owls
They howl for flesh, they tear the walls
dark blood slides down drop by gelid drop
from the glorious vault I carved in better days
Congealing at the feet of painted idols
raised to Venus, to the whole wide world
to all that life so naturally extols
I stand within the cavern of my heart
and shudder to feel a feather
brush my cheek
From Bird under water, a selection of poems by Hugh Featherstone
© Hugh Featherstone
Poems from this selection appear when the Drood's away.
The Bird under water homepage includes a foreword by Hugh Featherstone
and a linked list of the poems as they appear.
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