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Poetry
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| Cassidy | |
| By hutmaster | ||
| 18 August 2007 | ||
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Ground deep in cold, cold stone, CASSIDY, chiselled by craftman's hand on Celtic Cross. A long finger traces each etched letter, vivid nail gouging green velvet moss creeping into, living in, CASSIDY, corroding the name as sly worms long past corrupted dead Cassidy. Unvisited for years have lain the remains of Cassidy. So long since he dropped to rot, decompose, return to ash and dust. Below lies Cassidy as bones. Lonely Cassidy as white, white bones.
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