My Monsignor Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Let me my Monsignor
not chant or sing
about
what the speaking yew sings
and speaks
and whispers
the speaking yew
in the cemetery.

Graves, tombs, graves,
monuments, tombs, graves,
creaking, groans, moving
shadows and lights,
shades, grey, lights
and then
dark, dark, dark
ashen dark and ashes

Moving dresses, of flesh empty,
lighting,
for it be midnight in the cemeteries
sub-conscious
the Poet Seer dreams
dreams
and tosses in his bed.
It's mid night and
about.