Table of Contents
along the stream that fell from clouds
he came upon
a pile
of bones
recognized
the glaze
and angles
as his own
kicked them
in the creaming
beck
no use
for them
without
a head
going upstream
beside
the gambling goose
where sat
on a bench
a pod
of drunken friends
a mason
chipped
his name
on a slab
while just beyond
an undertaker’s lad
polished the plaque
on his coffin lid
rest
in peace
he muttered
to the clouds
death
is of little interest
to the dead
he remembered
the ring of horseshoes
creak
of carts
a land
full of birds
flowers
in meadows
sweet tea
in harvest fields
he recalled the stink
of rat shit
round empty breadbins
servile touching
of caps
how strange
it is
that all these bits
and pieces
making me
should sit here
contemplating
how
the end of breath
will come
to slaughter
each
and every one
and ashen
lies the shadow
in moonlight
as you grow older
opined
joshua devizes toombs
to harry
barman
in the morpheus
arms hotel
death
gets sharper
edges
day by day
last night death sat
in the other chair
he had
a pensive look
as if unsure
i was ill-fit enough
to grace
the darkness
of his halls
i guess
i may stick around
a while
old man in a tizzy
the cold
not in
the bones
not yet
but still
there is a winter
feel
to now
there is
a craving
for mulled wine
for strawberries
cream
of full summer
and attendant
lips
shit
a maudlin
passion
is a wasting
of scarce days
when you are old and grey
well
i fucking am
a wind
is brewing
somewhere that’ll blow
this leaf
to fall
to putrify
in mulch
or burn
amongst
the other sweepings
in the flame
of all unknowings
meanwhile
a robin
grubs in snow
a pint
a fag
her smile
some stilton cheese
with apple pie
