Across the neat trimmed lawns
and orfered flower-beds,
of the Cosy Rest Retirement Home,
Mister Death steps as delicately
and nimnbly as a thrush.
As constant and caring,
as the gardener,
as practised and punctual
as the district nurse,
He watches with mild interest,
the grey-haired lady,
in number thirty-four,
who makes a careful pot of cosied tea
and sings a little to herself,
then moth-like at the window pane
of number thirty-nine,
where an old man coughs
in a walnut bed,
He pauses, pensive... and decides
to come by here next day
at early magpie time,
in case he's needed then.
Bruce Lundgren
all help appreciated
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