Mark Heathcote

(22/03/66 / Manchester)

Cemetery walks…


The gravel goads me as I walk…
Do you not hear me, do you not see me
Do you not feel me under foot?
Do you not, talk …Speak! Why sir you are ruder
Than the sky, ruder than the stars and moon
On high, how dare you scuffle on bye?
Kicking; me over at random as I keep.
Your offensive size nines dry. Sir—sir
Sir— even a dandelion has the curtsey,
To bow its head before it drifts on’
The wind: surely you sir could at least sing!
Do you not hear these yew trees or the grass?
Do you not hear the bird’s song in the holy?
Does that robin there not make you gasp!
Do you not hear my unchartered music? Sir—sir
Sir— I’m the journey and you are just the path,
That leads to the end of the road:
“The swirling cherry blossom or so I‘m told”
When; the wind sweeps through your left
Eye socket and tolls, know that death, is
Looking though the right still in abject absents.

Submitted: Friday, February 03, 2012
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