Peter Cowlam
Why yes, the pursuit ends here, An outpost of urbanisation,
Where an iron bench and rain-streaked wall Are the only topography.
Here our heir designate
Is no less solitary an individual Than the last – unlikely guarantor Of imperfectly understood beliefs.
These we do our best to recall – A solemn paperwork
Under protection of an ancient Representative, now throwing on
A long black coat, and anticipating All these dark, funereal umbrellas.