The Dead Lands.
The dead came, unwanted and unwilling to leave.
Gauzy groups hanging out at the corner of our collective eye
We cross the street, looking sideways and suspicious.
They wait outside the shops
Never buying anything
Unsettling rare shoppers.
no one knows how to move them on.
The Vicar says it's the wages of sin
And pretends not to see
As he lines his pockets with good throwing stones.
Cobweb kids line potholed roads
few can afford to travel.
They wait to dart out
in hope of a ball.
Bright wreaths of cow-parsley, ivy and wild garlic
Serve to ward away unwelcome in-laws
And in the playgrounds, by the hanging chains
(the decaying remains of swings)
The grandparents, filmy and sad,
Wait for living children, we are too frightened to let out.