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focused on a 229
stopped at the light,
we trespass
through the corner
of a death.

a side gate open
into the churchyard
at holy trinity,
its tidy flowerbeds
and fallen statuary,
a shortcut that sees us
stumble blindly,
uninvited, into
someone else’s tragedy.

running full pelt,
we’re brought up short
by the funeral party,
as if caught running
in the corridor at school.

sheepish and humbled,
we mumble ‘sorry’s,
cross ourselves and scurry on,
skirting the edges of misfortune
as if a patch of muddy ground
on a sunday morning ramble,

weaving our way between
the coffin and the hearse,
the mourners and the undertaker’s men,
the living and the dead.

Photo of churchyard statuary at Holy Trinity, Sidcup by Belinda