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Tim Knight
Poems
Aug 2013
WAKEFIELD CEMETERY
Crest of the wave shoulders
moulded into the final box;
Russian doll soldiers
have nothing on this once free-bus-pass holder.
Open the windows to the let the fresh death out,
past the PVC French doors, triple glazed
and no doubt worth their weight in gold.
Tidy up her lips with thread reinforced with care
and a careful hand tidied up in a well healed white gloved pair.
The next-to-the-cemetery funeral home sits not far from Wakefield
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Written by
Tim Knight
Cambridge
(Cambridge)
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