Role-Reversal Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Crammed in between a caravan estate,
a tawdry factory, suburban rail,
the cemetry sprawls beyond the pale,
no standing room for those who, anxious, wait
in no mad rush to be entitled ‘late’,
who’d give the lie to those with plots for sale,
to lie, not stand on ceremony’s nail.
Who’d jump the queue, their cue anticipate?
Apt conclusion to vain love and hate,
theescore ten squandered, - then no hope of bail -
when wicked wicket’s stumped proceed to jail.
Man, hunter role-reversed, turns maggot bait.
We, whisper on time’s breeze, no echo leave,
who resurrection wait themselves deceive.


(9 June 2007)