The present plan was to go no further northwards
Three weeks had passed
Some years of her life
Now a few days
Her curiosity disappointed
Her heart glad
To see the burning grounds of Oakham Mount
Smoke could be seen
From one end of England to the other
Each cage held nothing more than scoundrels
Who made their living abducting innocents
Better to burn the guilty Fire Master
Cages and flames
A sense of joy ignited
Their putrid flesh nothing more than ash
The temper set off
Cheer and affection
And among themselves
Not one was sufficient enough to yield
YOU ARE READING
The Book of The Roses
PoetryJust a few stories I wrote about my true feelings. A new part published every Monday, so stay tuned.
