Pity is a brutal thing,

As the elderly man stoops

And places a cluster of flowers

On the ivy swallowed grave.

In his woollen hat,

Slightly askew,

And long, mothball smelling coat,

He rests a single,

Withered hand,

Upon the pitted stone.

Sat on the flaking bench across

A field filled with the dead,

I watch him sigh,

Close once bright eyes,

Bow his once bright head.

And the ugly pity

Is not because I

Feel pain from what he sees,

The pity is because

One day

That figure will be me.