THE OULD GRAVEYARD AT GREYABBEY

leant slabs losing the diction
oranged and grey-green
stones slowly to sand
time, in his fine white jacket
constantly operating

nearly in rows, nearly neat
one points north, obviously askew
others south, those others
rebellious in their disintegration

aged twenty and died, aged seventy-four
aged forty-three and lain down
fifty-nine and eternally asleep
one and a half, silent, no more

the moon shields no thing
illuminates all
shadows the gruesome facts beneath
fading formalities and plaited blue letters

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