Formaldehyde

The brittle orange of the leaves
pave the lanes of England's glory.
Skeletons of Jesus' memory.
Tomb-struck wings of butterflies
remembering formaldehyde.

In shadows long of crimson wine
we bathe, baptised, into what?
Our weak flesh of white,
we the ever-poor in black nights pray
to whom?

And we build a new sea's side
from formaldehyde.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.