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Withered flowers fastened to a wasting bench,

Its plaque and pickled paint are weathered long.

The buckled slats curl flecks on harshest winter's freeze.

Where age defies intent to which it did belong.

As passers-by whom in their daily cues entrenched,

They, wrapped in woolen shields, look blindly on

And notice not the broken petals on the breeze,

Nor sense the echo of a parting angels song.

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin