Books, poetry and plays authored by Beatrice Fields

Days; how tortured and distorted,

How bruised and battered you must feel now,

Stretched and uncomfortable, hyper taut skin,

Now ball tight, rolled up, kicked out, thin.

Some nine o'clock risers, daylight despisers,

Leather armchair squatters, clock watchers,

Thrust hands round with aching eyeball.

Others, perhaps witin the city, or without,

Watch the slow trickle of daylight seep under the door,

And raise their hands in sudden horror,