At Yeats’ Grave

What else but a cold eye when all around

Your grave the ravens cry out for their own

Dead, begging their horsemen—the praying flies

On pilgrimage—to take their photographs

And pass by?

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About writewithlightning

I'm a published Canadian poet and fiction writer, posting haiku daily @writelightning on most social media sites. Please like and comment so that I know you're reading. It means a lot to me! View all posts by writewithlightning

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