that body resting on a garden seat
freed of all it innocence
was somehow manhandled.
it wasn't murder
no pickaxe, no Victorian scream
no, it just lay down to die.
weariness entered into it
a sense of not being there -
the face is unclear
muscles move and juggle shape
the eyes stare.
no smile, but a subtle humour
not life in death, but grazing on the living
unaccommodated and human.
the end meant dying out of sight
but somehow the corpse revolted.
Gar Jones - 1981