Sunday 8th April
Who is this fine gentleman strolling hands in pockets through the grass?
Who is this unwelcome stranger sauntering like the master of time?
Who would dress too sharp for such a time of day, resplendent in a suit
so black that light comes willingly to die?
Tuxedo black, black hole black, black as the ace, casually strolling
through the garden with cruel benevolence. Has he fixed us
with that single eye, as the other watches worlds on the far side –
eye like a moon in a starless sky? Who is this fine gentleman who comes
to mock & threaten us with confidence? What kind of man could
pass through town so casually like he alone was Landlord?