'I hardly write through hollow blackened fingers here between the blizzards and those guns, eternal casual guns we live to hate.' Photo: by Jonny Gios on Unsplash

Poem by Roger Iredale

Letter from Leningrad

Poem by Roger Iredale

by Roger Iredale 24th June 2022

Liebschen, forgive me one last letter out of lands
bereft of God. Such frost, such cold,
I hardly write through hollow blackened fingers

here between the blizzards and those guns, eternal
casual guns we live to hate. Eyes iced
with bitterness that twists and locks each bone