A mild, damp breeze blows,
dislodging decayed yellow leaves
that slide along misty currents,
down and down again onto wet,
algae-smeared tombstones.

Behind the church a tired sun sets,
casting vague shadows
across a sodden graveyard
where slugs slide effortlessly
destroying rotting floral tributes.

The old man wipes his brow,
recalling a distant youth
when sharp frosts chilled October’s bones,
and keen, bright stars twinkled
beneath a bleached and bone white moon.

Unseasonable winds never blew back then,
not when he stole apples
from the vicar’s bursting shed,
laughing with his pals as holy fury
raged behind diamond panes!

Standing by the open lych-gate,
he mused how times have changed.
Lost innocence of youth?  You can keep it!
He’d seen his own grandchildren laughing at him,
reflected in the corner-shop windows.

The old man sighed at his ***** suit,
his mildewed shoes and faded plastic buttonhole.
His memory wasn’t all that good,
and he didn’t get out much these days.
Was it really a year since they’d buried him?