The Scythe

Thought I’d give you all a quick update on what I’ve been up to before I give you a poem for today. I’ve been focusing on learning lines for the upcoming play: Noël Coward’s Still Life, which is being performed 29th November to 1st December in Queens Hall. If you’re a theatre person and can make it along, please come. It’s going to be presented with The Bear and The Proposal by Anton Chekhov, so there’ll be laughter and tears. Further details here.

Other than that I’ve been working on The New Play, still tentatively titled Now or Never, for which I’m nearly done. I’ve got about half a scene and a short closing scene to write, taking up about 8 or so pages of dialogue in total (if that). Still working out the complexities of this scene though, but hoping to nail it all by the end of the week, circumstances permitting.

Now, without further ado, a new poem for Friday:

The Scythe

Death’s scythe was trampled underfoot;
A child’s toy with plastic parts.
Autumn leaves obscured the path
But springtime blossomed in our hearts.

The reaper always stalks the field,
And all of us must feel the cut.
But walking with your hand in mine
Death’s scythe was trampled underfoot.

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