Hands are folded, eyelids droop
while scenes of slumber though seas of dream espy.
Entrenched, the succinct visions turn,
paraded for a liquid eye:
from cisterns rise a bellowed fog on callous skies.
The Judas tree beside the yew bends where the willows cry.
Here, caravans with solemn pace arrive athwart an aged gate.
All crows flap wild, the air is chill,
black hoods, blown leaves in misty swirls
attend a box, long, narrow, then. . .
awake, you cannot see the end.


©J. Lowe


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