by Oran Bailey
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Image by Ronan Park
Here lies the Earth.
There were no attendants at the funeral,
no pallbearers to shoulder the great weight,
no tattered pennants raised in shaky wind
or cold comforts in the rain.
The death knell does not toll;
it has already been lowered into the burial vault.
Graves litter the waterlogged earth.
The people are all gone.
Scattered flowers driftwood,
voyages splintered for good.
The tides spread like a stain
but it's too late to clean.
No-one turned up to the funeral.