Dead Quiet my body has been slowly diminished my heart quickly fell victim the ventricles soon consumed no pain just an awareness of a thousand mouths the dead can’t forget the world rain seeps in insidiously dripping so slowly through the coffin joints and cracks the summer heat sits stubbornly on the decaying brain My first death anniversary not much left to celebrate a skeleton, soon to be disjointed, not shiny and slick as a Halloween counterpart but a bag of old bones to be shaken one bag quite like another. I could be Hamlet but more likely Yorick or just a minor role you’re thinking at last he can RIP I don’t like to disappoint you a graveyard’s a lively place they’re digging graves close to me someone’s leaving flowers then there’s the courting couples the most disturbing of all I think by the second anniversary it will be quieter I’ll have almost completely gone Night Voices The house is darkness itself. Ancient beams stretch stiffly Across white plaster ceilings. Behind my bed, a portrait- A young girl in fragile blue- Moves restlessly, imprisoned behind the frame’s gold bars. Whispering, secret gossip, Here the listless dead, Huddled round the cold, Brick fireplace, speak Of old tragedies: Sheep lost in deep snow, Ploughmen, drowned in floods. Outside the yew trees brood, Dour, dark in the east wind. Loose, leaden panes Chatter glassily of scenes Of past bloodshed. Footsteps sound softly Tiptoeing up narrow stairs, Seeking long gone rooms. From far away haunting notes As pale, skeletal fingers Press yellowing keys. I turn to sleep, Behind me, the past Lingers… OUT OF THE SEA Green slime clings to skeletal forms. Mouths slowly drip dark blood onto the sand. Webbed feet long talons sharpened on flesh and bone claw their way over sea-wet stone. Moonlight creates a white-washed path over a rough and storm-driven sea. One by one these Monsters of the deep each cast looming shadows over the midnight beach. In the dark they crawl their way to grass covered graves where the dead lie wrecked sailors saved from the storm. Skeletons, the rotting dead snatched in the moonlight to be devoured to be digested by knife-like fangs. As daylight dawns into the waves they return to sleep back to darkness in the depths of the deep. . .
Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher who lives in Cambridge, UK; She has taught in UK, India and Tanzania. Her interests include: equestrian sports, the countryside, Medieval History and Ghosts. She has had work published in a number of magazines and anthologies: ‘Paddle’, ‘Dipity’, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Ashes’, ‘Cosmic Daffodils’, ‘The Flying Dodo’, ‘Waywords Lit; Journal’, Pure Haiku’, ‘The Plumtree Tavern’, ‘Sciku’ and others.
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