UPON THE BARROW
The bitter cold sears torpid fingers
Whilst rain runs from the brow;
Daylight is poor and distance lost
So the panorama is curtailed.
The placating tang of incense
Floats from the chambered tomb,
Fanned sweetly by Aeolian breath
To suffuce the empty womb.
Down the hill past harvestís fields,
It is this heady scent which leads:
Before it lingers by the brook and tree
Upon which many devotions bleed.
Woven by modistesí cold hands,
Tokens drape the limbs in faith;
Absorbing the diffuse coiled fumes,
They slowly disperse the wraith.
Chill wind bites dead flesh once more
In a downpour of gaucherie.
If taedium vitae will not let go
Then no-one will ever see.
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