death creeps ubiquitous in the
afternoon sun, across the church bricks, in the
silent cracks and corners, fingers slowly
lacing the mortar joints, crawling round the corners.
august’s midday sun beats round the mulberry bush
ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
death’s fingers grasp the posies as they crumble
to dust and shadowy flesh follows and falls down,
down to the ground below leaving a
gritty film on the pigeons and
happy passers-by.
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