BLACK BUTTERFLY

 POETRY, PROSE AND PAINTINGS

                    Tap Tap Tap

              Tap, tap ,tap, the watchman's feet

              his hasty rounds through the grave yard beat.

              Tap, tap, tap on the cold grey stone

              an hour to go and the comfort of home.

              Tap, tap, tap, he stands all alone

              still it echoes around him, some one tapping on stone.

              Tap, tap, tap, it echoes away.

              Not long to go now, thirty minutes then day.

              Tap, tap, tap, the watchman looks round

              and sees, on the hill where the new graves are found,

               tap, tap, tapping crouched all alone,

               a withered old man over a new headstone.

               Tap, tap, tap, the cold night is stirred

               by a tiny sound in the grave yard heard.

               Tap, tap, tap, a chisel on stone.

               The ancient one speaks;

               "They spelt my name wrong."

               Tap, tap, tap...