The dark shuffle

Being a passer-by is often somewhat strange. 


The dark shuffle 
I know about this area 

There are stories and facts

Of greens of gold 

And religious acts 
Still I find it on a pleasant 

Nearspring day

In a state of quiet 

And inconspicupuousness 

The blueness of sky brings tint 

As beamed roofs slope away undistubed

From the city, trees climbing 

Pushing up through pavements and kerbs 

Green and space converge, exchange 

Low rates threading their way between 

Stations and spires, taxis and prams 

Until, that is, you turn the corner 

II

Row upon row of stone teeth 

Skyward poised, remembered 

Across the road from the stars 

And brick turrets of the crematorium 

III

On the way back they are gathered 

Shuffling in dark tones 

Hushed voices and shaken hands 

Waiting for something that is already done 

You end up shuffling by yourself 

Concerned about your role as unfortunate passer-by

The human urge to peer and perceive

Floundering on the rocks of unknown ties

What must they think? 

Seeing someone unconcerned with their beliefs 

Unknowing of the gravity of day 

Enjoying the sunshine, unaware of grief 

If aliens ever come, sympathetically 

There’s a good chance they’ll feel just like me
Sloth out. 

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