Glebe Lands

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 in suddenly and complete whilst walking past Troon cemetary near Camborne. 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.