Thursday,23 June 2016 Poem by Chris Zachariou

The dismal spectre of a dying stanza
gasps between the black and white keys
of a crumbling tuneless piano.

Cigarette burns and brown stains
scar its tired wooden top—tarnished
medals from recent wars and skirmishes.

These are the Beagle's final days.

In a rusty voice, the town-crier's bell
proclaims to empty streets and galleries
the death of art and poetry in the city
and sombre incantations continue into the night.

Beyond all courage, obscure poets
shelter in the barricades of French cafés
and Vincent circles the yard each day in tears—
all his sunflowers and bright yellow fields
have perished in evening's fading light.