The Town Churchyard

They've painted the grille
black and gold
and I hear the choir
practicing today.

I sit on a bench
with an expletive written,
a pigeon on my shoulder,
how I wish it were a dove
to fly my cares away.

they've restored
where the boats moored
and sandstone
laid in powders of gold
where a thousand feet
made their way
to a mass for the fisherman
swept away
on a tide of emotion
leaving loved ones,
grieving, seething.

a man with a plastic box
makes heavy weather
of his lunch,
the sky is overcast.

I carry treats
in a bag
and the sounds of
the choir
seem like angels
in a surreal
lunchtime sound.

They've painted the grille,
removed the stone,
planted flowers
in a piece of a church yard
where I sit on a bench
with an expletive written.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 740 times
Written on 2014-02-22 at 20:01

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M Heathcote
I like this Elle your little delicate descriptive touches are beautiful.
2014-02-23


Chaucer Whethers
I have always thought you a very accomplished artist, but it does concern me that your inner narrative is beginning to make perfectly good common sense. :-)
2014-02-22