Old Aunt Mel

Old aunt Mel was up at the crack of dawn

She sped towards the watering cans

With the briefest glance at the burials in her viridescent lawn.


In her garden were three sloppy graves

Dug hastily, as if with weak faith, they were

Scant, with no garlands on the tiny caves.


Most furiously she bent battered over the unfortunate blight

Holding the can desperately in her pale grasp

She watered the bare brown roots with all her might.


Next she poured litter into clean bowls that shone

With practiced precision the graves hadn’t known

Old aunt Mel never felt more alone.


The daily post

Daily prompt: Denial (The Daily Post)




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