Death of a Flower
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Down on row and pit and mortal flower
the undertaker’s men stood grave and bier,
and brave stoic death fills the living hour
forevermore a day, a week, a year.
Where bathed in shafts of exalted light toll
the bells of Mass and vigil in Greenhithe,
when in bound clay an immovable dole
grimly hung the shadows in hood and scythe.
Yet I upon this ploughed earth sullen gaze
and hearken in the blooms the winds of death!
What sting its blow to a full end of days
that dares to breathe on me its cankered breath.
Withered is the bud and brief flower shed
yet for a time its beauty shone outspread.
Written: July 1995
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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