In Search Of Oscar. Poem by Gillian.E. Shaw

On, through the necropolis;
Grave or crypt or tomb?
Varied form once chosen - housed
for the time to come;
they watched while I just browsed?

Some were proudly looking down
others just a name
in slate a stone cobbled town
long ago found fame
had completed the game.

Dank, shady, dark and sombre
sunshine just can't reach
thick clouds of flies in number
swipe, swat try to cheat.
But can a dead man speak?

Stumbled on then one by one
David... Dumas... Wilde,
a pale pink sphinx erection
à la mode - in style?
It will stand yet awhile!

Surely any sort of clue
just a sign or word?
'Outcasts mourn' - that is so true
lines once penned in gaol
a sad, sorrowful tale.

Few words writ as fine and rare;
prompted by that vault
perfumed color everywhere;
much is oft' forgot
his faultless verse is not.

Cimetière Père Lachaise Paris

April 2007