Whispers and Echoes - Issue 1

When the factory whistle blows | Lynn Love

When the factory whistle has blown for the day, as the smoke clears the stacks and the workers clog home to bread and dripping, or straight to the Brewers for pie and pint, my weary feet take me to the burial ground.

Carriage rattles, the whoop of boys deadly with their sticks and balls, all are gobbled by the creak of the yews, the welcome of the crows.

I find a table top grave cushioned with moss, inscription flaked bare and I lay back, let the weeping skies wash me, hold out my hand.

And wait for you.