MINUTES FROM THE COMMITTEE FOR SENSIBLE TRAGEDIES
- 2 days ago
- 1 min read
By John Metcalfe
We gathered where the candle smoke hung trapped in fetid air,
The ceiling bowed beneath the years and things we dare not say,
The room was thick with old consent and disciplined despair,
Grief took a seat and waited to be recognised as there.
Item one: Optimism. It vanished from the slate,
No hand rose to plead its cause; no voice could show support.
Item Two: The vicar’s smile, worn thin by fractured faith,
A brittle brown parchment of piety over heavenly doubt stretched taut.
Rain arrived with a withering wind and began to amend the plaque,
For future generations carved in stone to weep,
We watched the elements blur the words, we couldn’t claim them back,
Leaving the derelict future to a sinking, drowning sleep.
The bell usually raised for weddings or to mark a final bow,
Rang out a different peal, it’s time to close the ledger now.