Amongst fog drenched meadows
Crows peer in earnest
As the grim reaper sows his seeds
In another untimely plot of land.
Perched like vultures,they eye the sexton
Digging away history in the churchyard.
Like curtains pulled across sunny windows
The day darkens
Spirits of centuries hurry past
Taking up their ready paid seats in the shadows, of moss coated tombstones.
Evil winds stir the boughs of rusty trees
Which rub and tap at the stained glass windows.
As the shroud is lowered into the clutches of the soil,
The crows eerily caw, signalling a crude and patronising death toll.
I turn and run
Away from this morbid adventure
Seeking solace in the cars warmth
Free from the grasp of things not comprehensible.