Anthony Mott

Standing

Stand by my grave if you must
Toss chocolate, damp earth,
Wet white tears,
Maybe an idle comment
From the cavern of your tongue
Unleash a flower.
Almost withered
It reaches my unshaken hand
My deaf fingers.

Stand by my grave if you must
If need or quiet brings you
In procession
Pay me no heed as
I lie here amongst the ashes
Of my ancestors
For conversation I struggle
For comfort I submit
To you, my oxygen, my blood,
My fire extinguished

Copyright © Anthony Mott 2015

I am an unpublished  57 year old manager in an FE college with a love of language, cats and dark haired Italian women.

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About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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