Poem Of The Week: All By Alison Brackenbury

All

And all who died, from winter's sleet,
From flu, from guns, from cells gone wrong,
Still stand, one breath from fingers' reach,
Just out of touch, all colour gone.

The dead grow smaller. From a train
Mist takes the fields, drinks green to grey,
The fog has swept across their face.
In yard or park, they walk away,

Then wait in rooms, without a fire,
With tea uncleared, without a fuss;
In cushioned chairs, now closer drawn,
Nod to each other, not to us.

But in mid age it is not strange
To glimpse them, in the windy street,
Quiet at the kerb, who are all dead,
From guns, cruel cells, or winter's heat.