Poetry from NHI publications

Through a side-wind you shall sense them,
through a draught from an open door,
in a splash of unguarded moonlight,
chance scrape of a chair on the floor;
down small, unfrequented alleys
where tom cats turn tail, and flee
they uncramp the fingers of midnight
for their foul advocacy.

Shout! Friends will never hear you;
you but beat with your stick on air.
You may race for home and sanctuary
turn and they are there;
and wipe your hands on the towel,
the wounds are but staunched, not cured;
there is no more warmth in the ashes
and the cold must be endured.
New Hope International New Series #1

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