A Place to Die In

In the last days of your empire

A comb through your hair

While the lemons in the back garden go blue

While the relatives divide up your things

The dining table, the formal lounge,

The Singer sewing machine,

Old books, old tools, old crockery,

The jewellery still strewn across your neck

The bibles and Jesus pieces creeping in

Your home now a monastery 

Then, a display home.

The carpet pulled up.

The curtains stripped back.

The light escaping the tunnel.

The tunnel is a cave.

A cave is a gasping face – it is a place to die in.

Writer: Matthew Phillips

Editor: Teagan Marsh