An unseasonal warm damp wind blows,
dislodging decayed yellow leaves
that slide along humid currents,
down and down again onto wet,
algae-smeared tombstones.

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

An old man wipes his brow,
remembering a distant youth
when sharp frosts chilled October's bones,
and keen bright stars twinkled
beneath a Moon bleached-white.

Southern winds never blew back then,
not when he stole apples
from the burgeoning Rectory orchard,
and laughed as holy fury raged
behind diamond panes.

Leaning on the rotting lych-gate,
he mused on how times have changed.
Lost innocence of youth?
Now children walk abroad
like hooded demons, demanding gold!

And 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?