Treasure Island

Leslie Philibert

(6th March 1954 / London, England)

Sketch


Cold. Stars. A breath you can see.
Hills stand round a village like ignored guests
at a reception.The lights of the street fail; they obey not.

The second; the sleet forces my face down
to the wet road. It is nearly time.

The end; I return to a home that kicks me.
Cold. The stars ice. Midnight.

Submitted: Wednesday, February 13, 2013

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Comments about this poem (Sketch by Leslie Philibert )

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  • Diane Hine (3/20/2013 8:19:00 AM)

    Spare and cutting style in keeping with the bleak subject. I like the image of the hills as ignored guests. (Report) Reply

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