At St. Albans Churchyard
by Juleigh Howard-Hobson
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Old headstones—namelessly eroded—green and grey with speckled moss in the sudden light that fell after this morning’s rain. The bright sparkle of the sun reflected in between these markers, where crevassed droplets fell on webs, wet-laden now and spider-less. So do our lives always come down to this: damp stones in sunny boneyards. Nothing else. (first appeared in The Hyper Texts) |
 C. D. Russell |
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