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In - Between
By
Rusty Broadspear
In the darkened room, memories bounced and skipped,
My mind was naked, my flesh was stripped.
The headstones leaned and stumbled drunkenly,
The weeds were rife, the grass was tall.
Ebony night fell like a fire curtain,
Tonight the dead would sleep to the sound
Of the nocturnal call.
Stillness, isolation, run-away imagination,
The mind wind blows a curve, an angle,
An attempt to strangle the isolation
And dry the perspiration
Which was nothing more than body tears.
The moon appeared dealing forth a cream light,
Providing a communal duvet,
A night light for those who may be afraid
Of seclusion, concealment and decay.
Some sleepers had been visited,
The evidence was broken dead flowers.
Left with good intentions
But forgotten - and then time devours.
The guardian Church stood big and still
And dark and strong and made of stone.
Promising all but giving nothing
To this overgrown garden of earth and bone.
In one far corner beside the broken gate
There was infinite colour and light
Where two deeply loved residents
Grabbed the chance to reunite.
The grass over there was crisp and short and green
Nowhere else in this unearthly park
Was such a sight to be seen.
With an epidemic of freshly cut blooms,
Headstones upright and scrubbed clean,
A visible golden woven thread
Holding the forces of in - between.
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