Monday, 1 October 2018

A poem by Frances Sackett


Look down as you walk,
I will touch your shoulder with one finger.

Don’t be weary or full of hate.
As you move, pretend you tread air.

I love that bit of your shoulder.
Do you know that? I wish you to know that.

Even when hope is gone
your skin will remember.

Listen, the trees are full of sounds -
the cut grass exudes its green passion.

When a bird brushes your grave
you will feel my touch on your shoulder.

Written to the soundtrack of ‘Schindler’s List’. John Williams.

Frances Sackett's poetry has been published in many UK magazines and journals. She recently won third prize in The Pre-Raphaelite Society Poetry Competition. Together with a group of poets, she was involved in writing poems for Manchester Cathedral. Her collection is 'The Hand Glass'. (Seren)

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