Common sense deserted him and he stands abandoned,

castaway at the centre of a pond that doubles as a wishing well.

 

Old pennies, tarnished and sunk, and discoloured at the edges,

have bonded together like discarded medal ribbons,

while above them, newer coins glisten in the sun

and are fished-out by children, only to be thrown back in.

 

History repeats itself and so too, sin.

The battle is re-enacted and he is resurrected

in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Killed in action, he is now the main attraction.

 

sf-poetry0

 

But lo, see how the greenhouse is padlocked

and has whitewashed panes to keep the secret in,

of  tropical plants propagated in pots

and a pump that feeds oxygen to a tank

brimming with Japanese carp.

 

No hope of a warm bath for he,

stone cold at the cenotaph

on this second Sunday in November.

 

Still, it is important we remember

never to believe what we are told.

sf-unknown-poetry

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