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Famous Reporter # 33
 

 

 

CHERYL HOWARD

 

           Wrenched from us

 

A fog crept in smelling of bad news.
A denial he got lost in.
Time, an abyss that swallowed him.
Needlessly, a fate of inattention.
 
All we were left with
on that low clouded dark thunder day
of pungent green hills and valley foreboding,
was a barren space.
 
 
Returning, we took there
a globe of golden flowers,
and stood silent in our not-knowing, grey expanse of blank.
Something we had revered had gone from that place.
 
As we drove away, looking back,
the flowers flared up, a beacon on the hill.
As faith signals through gloom.
From nothing – to fullness abiding.

 

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