windsock flutters at a touch of breeze; starshine sings its subfusc song.Speak, old ghosts, wherever you may be. Come
straggling through fields and over stiles-- ford the grass- less pastures wild time
With rusted scythes and secateurs, open the veins of the past;
gather, you souls at the edge. Gather your joys and dreads and scatter them like stones-- so heavy, so cold-- over the furrows of memory, the ever- burning effigy of the child hang- ing from his tree.
Thomas Farr is a British writer of fiction and poetry. He enjoys travelling, running, cycling, reading and writing, although he doesn’t enjoy writing author bios. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Livina Press, Tales to Terrify, Aôthen Magazine, the Jupiter Review and elsewhere. He tweets @tfarrpoetry.