That Day


Spilling from the G

a procession

in Yellow and Black 


a trudging, heaving

funereal mass,

labouring down and



silent stepping

through eucalypt shadows, elongated and entangled;

a stepping cortege

stepping away,



hushed shmurmers

amidst a jostling communion

as turnstiles click, click

rolling on


and twilight skies

falling upon the platform, flat

with cool indigo enveloping

the tethered mass,

standing silent.


heads bowed as in prayer

with gazes empty

and dead,

yet restless and watching


with hope,

anguished and futile,

that day,



into the void below,

to rest.



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