Wednesday, 24 August 2016
poetry 2016 / 093
The indolence of August
fills the spaces between silences.
You shift position, uncomfortable
even in the shadow of a tomb.
Augustus Montclair 1814-1872
but the carving of him faded
under the onslaught of acid rain;
a product of the traffic
he could never have predicted
when the church he patronised
was a good walk from the village
(the better to collect your sins).
Now he looks generic, a mud man
from a fifties sci-fi and his sword
has become a ridge of limstone
populated by lichen of a dozen hues.
I glance across at you, streaks
of cold mascara from your tears.
© Rachel Green 2016
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