Creative Writing Ink April Competition Winner

Maria Kiernan

Grey faces, shuffling by, smell of rain on their country coats.
Like crows they gather all dull and dark, foraging for feelings.
Sorrow is their favorite, raw and real reminding them of their own suffering.
Yellow roses tossed onto the wood and muck as they lay him down.

Fr. Fitz flicks blessed water on top of the rain.
The cold crawls up, my hands are numb. Our Father is mumbled, my father not yours.
Hard hands hurt mine the grasp too strong, my strength is gone
They scatter through the rows of the long gone, leaving me lonely.