Dark, starless night sky, a sliver of the moon
golden scythe is mowing down the old.
Harvest time, forgot to close the window,
a chill settles in ancient lungs evil coughs.
Church bells toll the day; the day is hot and
gives nothing away, the old priest is on holiday.
The locum is clumsy, hasn`t had a bath for months,
a murmur of discontent.
The cleric sweats there is a smell of booze
a church’s reject; they do take care of
their own. This isn`t swine flu nothing to
report, the old dying as they must