Inspired in part, by the downgrading of exam grades in British schools this week, Too Late Now was written as a way of venting my anger and frustration at the stupidity of Mankind.
Probably because of the urgency I felt, prose did not seem the correct medium and so I chose poetry. To me a poem should, whatever its subject, pack a punch.
After it has rested, I may look at the poem again and rework it, hopefully make improvements. However, it felt right to share with you this raw version.
Three O’s at eight o’clock each night
echo about the red brick walls
with the ghost of a love that comes
haunting with a buried hand squeezed tight.
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