A bag-for-life, with folded clothes
and a cashed in pay-plan;
the uncollected council urn
propping up expired ledgers,
someone else’s trophy; embalmers
gurney and chrysanthemums.
Lost records depict the civic
cemetery laid out like
A dragonfly, its thorax edged
by eerie yew and cypress:
The grey path where all panoplies pass.
In the unmarked places, you may
gather luckier flowers, like
buttercups and ox-eye daisies;
as though the dispossessed still
dispense curses and favours, or care.
First published in Weyfarers Poetry magazine.