Tthe streetllamp, still aglow <br />casts a gloss over the footpath. <br />The orange light of morning gushes through the bedroom window; <br />your weary fingers scramble for the lightswitch, <br />as the seagull swoops for prey. <br /> <br />Somewhere long ago, <br />you marched through the feilds of DeNang <br />twitching at the eyes of children concealing weapons, <br />your nervous fingers flinching the trigger startled, <br />as their weeping mothers fall and pray.<br /><br />Theresa Daly<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/weary-fingers/
