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Brian P FitzGerald


Poems of Brian P FitzGerald

The Church

My heart is held in icy grip
A biting wind now takes my breath
Along the path I struggle and slip
Before me dance the wraiths of death.

So bleak the church ahead I knew,
Grey and spectral in ghastly glow.
The tumbled tombs and gnarled yew
And drunken headstones covered in snow

[Hata Bildir]