Welsh slate
They gouged
deep scars in your beauty
tearing the
skin
blood
flowing hard and grey.
As if in
sympathy
sad terraces
streak your face
running down
to pool
in the
flooded cemetery square.
It’s hard to
see the beauty
under your
disfigurement -
the raw
wounds draw the eye.
The healing
green is slow to grow
on these
dark rocks.
Only the
snow pulls over
a cold white sheet.
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