In the ash of the sombre morning
A Magpie steals away,
An undertaker, sable-clad
Against the funeral of the day
Mourning the empty sorrow of trees,
Barren bones, rack and vex,
The sky’s in her old crepe veil,
Dead water no longer reflects.
In the copse the shadow children play
Games of their childhood rite,
Torn and ragged their muffled cries
Skip in sadness to chase the light.
And the dark crow’s echo becomes mute
As he attends this wake.
The poor man’s friend ever watchful
For resurrection or heartbreak.
And what of the sun’s wax effigy?
A candle lost in cloud.
While below all dream of heaven
An old graveyard bell tolls aloud.
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