One gets sick,

the other follows —

and drag out blue irises

and lines by Tennyson,

the only one that really fits:

“We know nothing.”
When they call for a minute’s

silence

there’s always some chicken truck

roaring past,

or a trench digger at work

in the south west corner.

Behind this though,

the sotto backing track of pigeons,

and beside another bed,

a woman in a white hat

bends to sniff a rose.
The infants are restless

and kick against their prams.

The eldest of the tribe,

whose wheelchairs resemble

sturdier versions of the prams,

cast their eyes over

their own future crowd:

the brave, the clever, the mute, the small —

(the funeral director fill in the dots)

“it comes to us all.”