Thursday 10 October 2013

The Crooked Stile and The Black Forest by Mark Harris

I've been having a go at poetry over the last week or two, having started it with my uni course, so here's a couple of them. Nothing too fancy here, no iambic pentameter or Old English alliterative verse, just two scenes that came into my head. Enjoy!


The Crooked Stile
                        Stands solemnly
      All on its own
                On it is carved
A heart once red

                    But worn away


The Black Forest

Her grubby, grasping hand reaches through the leaves,
As a cold wind tears through the black forest.
The trees whisper, the wolves howl.
Heart racing, she quickens her pace.

A murder of crows explode from above her,
Black wings beat to a cacophony of chaos.
A lashing branch paints a red line across her cheek.
She cries out with a deadened voice.

On and on she runs through the maze,
Lost and disoriented, as Cimmerian days crawl by.
Eternally running through the black forest,
She runs away from her nightmares.

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