Graveyard floor

A blackbird trawls the graveyard floor,
after a summer downpour,
hopping from mound to mound,
spearing the worms
whose ancestors once fed
on the tiny victims of scarlet fever;
their fathers who never returned
alive from the Front;
and their widows, starved
from heartache and lost pensions.

Reviews

[CD Campbell]

A snapshot of moroseness? A soliloquy of our recurring frailty? Art. Well done, sir.

[Maxwell Ryder]

*hat tip* thanks, CD