dandelion

cold echoes graze ancient walls
saturated in souls of the normal
the humble and the horrid

others are pressed here
like dried flowers
between pages of a book
flat and fossilised, in wise old stone

generals and gentry
mayors and majors,
dukes and duchesses,
patrons and parsons,
lords and ladies

the final scrap of a mother’s red agony
in a lonely ward, remains
scratched into slabs
that will long outlive the scratcher

but what of those without,
those who sat shivering
on hard pews
skin burnt and browned
fingers calloused, nails black

will their remembrance lie
in sacred panelling
or guilded glass?
it will lie in the fields
among the dandelions

their blood will nourish
future’s harvest