Cobwebs-Broken Poem by Mark Heathcote

Standing around like road signs in the snow,
most pointing upwards shouting, stop, don't go
others like traffic-cones, kicked-over
cobwebs-broken with names lichen ochre
read—tread no further - hold on to your time
let Sunday bells chime in late wintertime.
Let the migration of youth turn south first
let it be sun-bleached by some 30000 days immersed.
And then rise like a helium balloon
break from that shadow, from its ankles, hewn
then stand tall amongst these headstones entombed.
Let crypts of snow in your soul be-exhumed
mingle on the ivy that's always green,
and-congeal-to a stop-sign evergreen.