As summer breezes dust off
the holding yards,
North stays steady in a storm.
We rarely complete our plans.
It’s a game of millimetres,
of a bee’s tit. Where
you came from
takes you to where
you go: from dust
to dust.
Turn
to us with confidence,
is the undertaker’s slogan.
When they dropped Father’s coffin
Father would have liked that.
He was good at pointing out
mankind’s failings.
The undertaker’s man
had a corked thigh
from footy. But
the show must go on,
etcetera. Let us
speak in the present tense.
(Now is a loaded word.)
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