The Lord Charon
By Tony Grist
16 January 2012
for Sovay
He is not a lord like Milord Byron;
None of us is beneath his notice.
He sits in bushes and spies on us.
When the moment is right we go into his sack.
He empties that sack in a dreary garden
Where souls are planted in long straight rows,
Sending up leaves as thick as your hand
And a stalk with clusters of shiny, black fruit.
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