In crow-sport graveyard can be found
In vaguest shade of oaken glade
Long-cut girls with hasty breasts
All swollen 'neath their stringy vests
But mark thy time by rise and fall
Of their delights, for tomorrow's nigh
When we become the earth subsumed
As flesh turns worm turns blackbird pie
© Chris Bond — 23 June 2005
The poem came to me suddenly and complete whilst walking past Troon cemetary near Camborne and I had to commit it to paper as soon as I got home. It's a fairly obvious statement about the cycle of life; the gravid youth sitting on the tombs of the dead, but I think it captures, in a few short lines, something of the essence of the fragility and brevity of life. ALL FLESHE IS GRASSE.