DG Crum

Southern fiction writer

Category: Poetry

Spring, she will come

There’s a patch of woods along the road,
That leads from my house into town.
Through winter I barely took notice,
Of woods draped in a widow’s gown.

A frozen road of gravel and clay,
I walk it, seems like twice a week,
To the Village Store for food and post,
The owner nods, we rarely speak. Continue reading

The garden of Greta Jones

Green is the garden of Greta Jones,
Who lives in a house that creaks and moans,
On the edge of town, where she lives alone,
And feeds her garden on the flesh and bone,
Of the village children, who with sticks and stones,
Taunt the spinster known as Greta Jones.

© 2018 DG Crum

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