Tempestuous sky's so cold and dark,
where no bird flies save lonely lark,
'mongst the shadows, where coldness spreads,
stand sepia shapes of wooden sheds.

Oh whispering wind, what can you tell
of a life of terror and tormented hell
or torrid groans of sleepless souls
under public signs, nailed to poles.

Breath stained glass surrounds a child's shoe
an exhibit in a holocaust zoo.
Silenced bones can speak no guile
'mongst blackened ruins of brick and tile.

These broken spirits now must yield
to unmarked graves in an open field,
''O death where is thy sting ?''
'tis in the voice of these who cannot sing
and when we remember alone in the dark,
think of this place and the lonely lark.

© H V Swan

The dust settles, outlining your hand print on the bedroom floor, don’t want to breath, don’t want to move lest it be disturbed.
Gazing out through the condensation of my window into the midnight darkness, I try to recall our every word,  our every sentence,
whilst my heart beats out the endless lonely hours like the ghostly drummer on some ancient battle field.

© H V Swan

The clock strikes,
time stands still,
hands sweep across a moonlit face,
tears fall to the ground,
eternal rain on my soul.  
We kiss the stars and wrap ourselves in the velvet shrouds of darkness,  
fading into dancing shadows,
an immortal embrace.

© H V Swan

What is it we miss about those who no longer have a voice,
is it the lingering fragrance of softly whispered words,
the security of a heart beat through an ear resting on a chest,
the solidarity of an understood silence,
two souls embraced sharing unwritten secrets,
yet now all is replaced by the empty silence on the dawn of another sleepless night.

Tonight I feel her presence,
She heeds to the heartbeats call,
the candle light flickers with her breath,
The room chills in a balm of delight,
She is in the moonbeams that dance in cadence across the shadows of my room,
Her whispers ride the gentle wind outside,
I reach to touch her but there is nothing there,
only the tears that herald slumbers cruel jest,
All has been nothing but a dream.

© H V Swan

What of life and all that’s been,
Mine was stolen on a field of green,
For king and country, god and mum,
laid down in the shadows, never saw the sun.
100 years is mine to tell,
no comforting arms for those that fell,
I ask no pity, tears or plea,
Just once on a morn, remember me.

© H V Swan

We are such fragile things,
vulnerability exposed over single words,
voices, relentless pounding, mocking, senseless motives,
curling up on the floor, beating at the darkness with clenched fists,
subjectively futile as we grasp at the sunrise of another new day.

© H V Swan