A seven-year-old girl, wearing torn trousers, a traditional embroidered blouse, and pigtails with different coloured ribbons, sits in the middle of a circle of children among the burnt grass and rubble in front of a bombed-out classroom. Chattering the language of a ritual that goes back centuries, the children shout, clap, whistle and giggle. Their eyes haven’t lost their sparkle yet, unlike the blank eyes of their sole remaining teacher. Who knows what she has lost? Who can utter the poignance of all that is constantly threatened, invaded, expended? And yet, despite grief and loss, the children still enjoy the games they have always played: hopscotch, jacks, tag, and the game in which they must avoid being caught by the girl in the middle. Their teacher looks on, a smile twitching at her lips, knowing that children are her country’s hope for the future.
Kim M. Russell, 9th November 2026
It’s Monday and, at the dVerse Poets Pub, we are writing Prosery, a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice. Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, we have a limit of 144 words and provide a complete line or two from a poem, which must be included somewhere in the 144 words. We may change punctuation but may not insert words in between parts of the quotation.
Today our host is Sanaa, who would like us to write a piece of prose which includes the following line from Denise Levertov’s poem ’In California: Morning, Evening, Late January’:
” Who can utter the poignance of all that is constantly threatened, invaded, expended.”
