The Last Tailor

—

The clothes he wears are not his own

They dressed the flesh to suit the dead

With colours picked from nature’s prime

And perfumes rare that round his head

Entwine a crown of rule and law

In broken pieces whispering of a thread

——-

The white ones came and spun the rope

That covered tailored blood and green

And in his eyes they painted death

To cover tracks of life unseen

Protecting deep and final rest

And shielding paths where none had been

——-

And down this thread his life was passed

To draw all those whose time conveyed

That he might witness love or lack

And, bloodless till all life was weighed

Become the place to which we pass

His breath the stone on which our life’s displayed

——-

Each day our footsteps nearer tread

Unto that chamber where he dwells

In perfect silence now…