It was the murky stench of forgotten water
hidden somewhere
in the depths of an ivy-winding garden
and the autumn leaves which crunch into the mixing bowl

The rotting flesh of their midrib and veins
binding themselves a new life with the arms
of trees
which had fallen into the reapers puddle
- this is where they come to die.

Their graves, painting the garden Fallow and Umber
lay buried underneath a distant grey sky
the gloom of an English October is at their wake
and the feet of people
trample on their caskets
no remorse
no pause for thought
for nature's feeble skeleton
slipping out of breath