Cold moon

And there,
hung the moon,
in a night,
black with weight,
and shadows cast like islands.

The sign posts said nothing,
and the ribboned crows looked down,
and to dark lanes aside,
where the souls marched blind,
and seeing were blinded,
by the hands of the blind.

And the moon just hung there,

and the moon just hung there.

Chris Hopkins, was born and raised in Neath South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Chris, who claims poetry has been "my ladder out of some dark places" has had poems published in Tuck Magazine, the online literary journal 1947, Transcendent Zero Press and Duane's PoeTree. Two of his early e-book pamphlets "Imagination is my Gun" and "Exit From a Moving Car" are available on Amazon. Read other articles by Chris.