Poetry

White

Marked with an infallible token of death
Touched by a white horse, now looms my final breath
Rotted fingers and little black spots
An old adversary, come to draw my lot
No beak of rose, juniper and mint will mask the stench
As bodies fill up the fresh dug trench
Pestilence has come upon we peccant souls
Come with a purpose, to fulfil its role

 

‘White’ Is the first in a planned series of poems about the Four Horseman, with ‘White’ clearly dealing with Pestilence. I decided to have The Black Death as Pestilence’s disease of choice because of the devastating effect the disease had on 14th Century Europe and the imagery that I could draw from it.

© 2018
Photo via Pixabay CC0

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