FAT RATS

Here where the trees stop the sky from falling

and crows clatter their claws on the grey stones stooped in ivy,

anonymous names slide into history,

their dates as dry as the forgotten bones beneath.

Yet here is peace –

for the dust feeding the grass,

for the green flash of the parakeets climbing the chapel brickwork

and for the grey of a squirrel foraging an acorn at dusk.

The oak tree’s viridescent arms embrace all,

roots twisting between the dead,

whilst the fox forever chases their shadows, 

but feeds on the fat rats instead.

And so for the woman observing in silence nature flouts her fears,

for beyond these cemetery walls 

the virus is taking history from the hands of those who deserve it least;

but none will ever reach here,

for here 

all things cease.

SM©2020