The Graveyard

The stone is clean and white
In pristine condition just
As it was made - each
Triangular block fitting and
Widening from centre out to rim
The central column strong and
Firm and the fan of stone
Spreading from the central
Bone.  The edges are sharp
Well-cut and the blocks fit each
To each with a just precision
As the shape winds itself
Upwards contained in an outer
Tube of stone.  It has
A silent strength of form
And purpose.  A quiet
Out-of-the-way place where
Few feet have cause to tread
Locked-off by a door to the 
Lower human world.  The flies
Like it here.  They like the
Upward spiralling air, the
Finite space from wall to wall
And the pale beams elbowing
Through dusted glass.
They buzz and turn, rise up
And down following the
Contour of the stair.  They are
Rarely disturbed here.
They choose to die in this
Curved air, and fall
To the plain stone treads
Spiralling below.
Their bodies are strewn
On every one, gathering
Dust to themselves, tiny mounds
In the pale quiet light
Filtering from the sun.
They land like writing
Names scratched in stone.
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