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