At Torquay, on boxing day,
People process
to and fro,
Taking thoroughbred
children
And
thoroughbred dogs,
On leads with
them as they go.
In Christmas
present boots and clothes,
They promenade
the promenade
Beside a silver grey sea
Beneath a silver grey sky
Past the wooden benches there.
Without one glance, as they pass.
Each bench has small brass plaque.
Firmly fixed, so all can see.
High up on its wooden back
On each brass plate
There is a name,
Like Brian, Mabel, John, or Keith
And carefully inscribed beneath
Dates of birth and death are shown.
Their ghosts look outwards to the sea
Through the heedless passing parade
There are no skull dolls, fiestas or music at all
Here no one knows how to show respect
Metal labels have to do instead
So, polite conversations
Fill the fresh sea air
On the English day of the dead.
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