We rush the choke point, gain the gates,
find our bearings, take a right.
Strollers, laid out liberally,
are watching us as well they might.
Bothered by some speeding threat,
we find a different way to go;
slithers of directness lost
allow the conversation flow.
Etched upon the mass of headstones,
glittering and vanishing,
mysteries delay our bodies,
leave our thoughts meandering.
On the verge of heading back,
a pair of squirrels cosy up;
haven’t heard of distancing
but happen to be fond of nuts.
Lawrence Moore is 42 and has been writing poetry since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England, with his husband Matt and 9 mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published or forthcoming at ‘Sarasvati’, ‘Dreich’, ‘Pink Plastic House’, ‘In The Minority’, ‘The Daily Drunk’ and ‘Star and Crescent’. You can find him on Twitter @LawrenceMooreUK