POEM: E p i t a p h

epitaph

                                                            

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SEPTEMBER’S WHEN

the poets grow

old

alter colour

and fall

 

thou mayest in me

 

Years

have I died my

grey

 

Please – re-

serve your sympathy for thieves

of beauty, whose

stealings stole backs

and plug stomachs

 

the green-

grocers, folders

of wheat

the clean cutters

of sheep

 

A minute

fills

with shovels

whales

of these

brittling thieves

 

Keep harvesting

 

                                                   

First published in Barnwood