March 2020

How quickly things fall apart
lost memories of ancient times
walking in Spitalfields,
gobbed white death hanging off
railings, wild garlic amid tomb stones,
literary visions of city near the sea
white and blood red crumbling walls
shrouded by bedsheets,
bodies in the sun, feral cats scrapping
the shadows of the midday sun,
fetid and ripe melons rot,
three knocks then a door opens
blackness and peppermint
avoiding touch, silent gazes,
more gone and so few here
and today an empty bus
silently glides by
as if on its way to the isle of the dead




Peter Woodcock
29 March 2020

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