by Bob Bradshaw
For generations our family had walked these terraces. In December we planted the seeds, and plowed the fields over in March.
The communists flooded the country in 1955, their guns popping louder than a storm of hail hitting walls and roofs.
We had abused our workers, they shouted. We would be arrested.
We fled to the south. We could do nothing but cross a river silently at night.
Dirty as spent embers, we drifted in straw shoes with the clouds of dust and others of our criminal class:
the bourgeoisie.
Bob Bradshaw is very grateful to the journals that have published his work. His poems can be found at Apple Valley Review, Cha, Eclectica, Pedestal, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Stirring and many other publications. When he isn't napping he can be reached at
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