Vanishing point

Each day I walk past a cemetery

a neat white sign over a log cabin

R. Gray and Son Monumental Mason –

stacked stones waiting for judgment day. 

While I sit in the shelter at the bus stop

my feet are washed by cemetery run-off

and, as if this wasn’t bad enough
they have eviscerated the chip shop.
They have spilled its guts across the pavement –
old brown carpets and chewed-up clay

in a lonely spot at the edge of town

without ritual or sacrament.
I had to stand there today

slowly, the elements are breaking down.