Past verse

‘Can storied urn or Auntie Mabel’s bust
athwart the upland lawn conceal the dust?’
‘Perchance ’tis Agamemnon, lofty and serene,
who rides the blighted hearse to Golders Green.’

Memories of schooldays,
rattling in my brain,
broken lines of tattered verse
when not much else remains.


 

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