I see in bones and marrow, broken skulls
and crimson ink on parchment scribbled: words
in vain repeated songs of harrow; cull
of reaper: blood on pillow, chest that hurts.
O, welcome footfalls, shadow from his scythe
Tonight at last I gather ash from leaves
I sense his presence, on my flesh incised
the glyphs and signs, his words of grief.
I feel around my neck a tightened noose,
and in my armpits bulbs of pestilence;
my brow is wet, my shallow breath reduced
to meet his numbers and the vigilance
of hallowed harvest and that voice of night,
his whispered warnings, dreams and fright.
Vanitas – a still-life painting of a 17th-century Dutch genre containing symbols of death or change as a reminder of their inevitability.
I let my sonnet (of sorts) represent the same and link it the Tuesday platforms with the toads.