Undertaker
There was only the faintest sound
of sobbing. It was cold that day,
as when Towton saw so many dead.
Soon, he hoped, when this is done,
things will return to as they were.
When he could deal with tumours, hearts
that stopped in shock. The mangled flesh
and bone, the aged
and those who chose to die.
They sat in separate pews, the broken
widow and the stoic son. No comfort,
no loving touch. An impotent priest.
This plague had come to his house,
the cross was on his door.
Tim Fellows April 2020
Image by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto from Pixabay
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