he loved his native town
and ever sought its welfare
in glorious emerald glaze
with letters edged in gold
your epitaph and gravestone
are (in several places)
displaced or erased
it says here, “forty years as
sunday school organist,” so
behind the window-grilled pub
the site of your piece
is the place to sneak a piss
“they rest from their labours
and their works do follow them”
(that is, fourteen pints later)
from carriage-clocked home and hearth
far away into the sullen earth
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Tags: burslem, cemetery, poem, staffordshire, stoke-on-trent
Your blog is interesting!
Keep up the good work!
this makes me want to drink.
that’s okay with me.