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Poor Old Mrs Moore

Poor old Mrs Moore,
Her eyes trace the line across the horizon,
Her lip beginning to tremble,
Memories going down with the sun.

Poor old Mrs Moore,
Husband long since passed,
Lines etched across her pitiful face,
Time draining down the sink.

Poor old Mrs Moore,
Standing by the sea,
Longing for the water’s embrace,
To be enveloped completely.

Poor old Mrs Moore,
Her body submerged,
Just near the surface.
Her lungs filled to the brim.

Poor old Mrs Moore.


Rhiannon Hamper

Mountains Meet Lake
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