2129: Here St Margaret’s mower

Here St Margaret’s mower
drapes his jacket across a
pair of worn shoulders [as
his eyes find her cross – in
that ground are her bones
laid bare by years of work –
now no sweet scent – none

apart from cut grass & airy
wafts off his 2-stroke’s oily
flutter] – A mind’ll wander –
almost a meditation – says
Rev. A. Smith of this parish
of long-displaced – in a lost
time Buxted was shifted – a

quick toll competes with it
all [that history of upsets &
deaths] – Count them out &
greet one last faithful man –
His bin is full of cuttings – a
neatness below her cross –
He will sleep easier tonight

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