November 8, 7pm.


 
Wrapped in coats and scarves,
pensioners stretch their limbs beneath a leaden sky,
while streetlamps struggle to permeate
the darkness with their light.

In America, people cast their vote
in the general election
and I wake to a world gone mad.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The morning after

The morning after the full moon
there are seagulls everywhere
and crickets cling to the breeze.

The trees are alive with feathered song,
and somewhere far away where I cannot see
a cuckoo speaks.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Inroads

Pulling, cutting, carving.
Holes in pale white skin.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
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