11 January 2018
The Day that Donald Trump Dies
The sun will still rise
And somewhere clouds will rain.
Light will seep through the cracks
Of the morning.
Lilies on ponds will open whitely,
Exposed to the unseeing sky,
Fish will spiral through oceans,
Or shimmer in bubbles of glass,
Lions will doze beneath swoopings
And dusk-gloom will deepen,
And they will know nothing
As they do their rising,
Their seeping and blooming,
Their swimming and dozing,
Over this better,
This ever so slightly better
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A Diary blog
A photo, a piece of writing, a video... Anything creative done on a Thursday afternoon.
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