On the day we died black dogs ran through the carriage.
The cook buried his daughter in the soup.
The groom severed the head of the bride and fed her remains
to the horses.
The children rank amok in the village while the sky filled with crows.
Nurse maids fed spoons of brine to the landowner’s baby
While the old women of the town stirred crows feet
Into the stew of the king.
Like A Stranger Bringing Bad News
Too many mornings
dressing in darkness
the heart heals over,
growing cold and forgotten
like a tomb stone
in neglected woods.
The courtyard birds
leave their nests,
the winter world
driving its long shadows
across the tall grass,
looming like a stranger at the gate
then crossing the lawn,
climbing the step
and rapping the door.
Tom Harding lives in Northampton UK where, when not working, he writes poetry and draws. He has been published in various places including Parameter Magazine, Identitiy Theory, Unlikely Stories and Nthposition. He also maintains a website of his work at tomarianne.net.