Diarmuid Fitzgerald – Poetry
The air is full of burnt smog
and paths are crisscrossed with briars.
The clinging air fades
as I walk to the bitter lake.
I imagine your reflection beside mine
and I dip my hands in to cup some water.
I offer you a cup of these bitter tears.
The door is opened
the principle stands there
with the look of thunder on her face.
I can see her scanning the room.
The children are in full revolt
as books fly, tables are moved
from this tornado of hate