Hay

A old grocer’s bell,
then a silent fart of cobwebbed breath
crawls through the cracks of flaking plaster,
leaving nothing,
to disturb the sombre tock of three o’clock,
that neatly sliced portion,
sour quarter of the afternoon
set out as afternoon tea between the mildewed tomes.
Here heroes lay,
their ears foxed by marbled paper rainbows,
their perilous lives now flit in passive glimpses, moments,
no time to either take a bow or any other accolade.
Heroes need danger, a foe, a nemesis,
a reason for the polished sword or loaded gun.
Here there’s none, save the stealth of warmly muttered sighs

© Graham Sherwood 8/2012