It comes upon you
as you draw
the curve.
A cross.
Ivy now invades
old pink
plastic roses.
The candles
gone,
long ago.
Derelict.
A door opened
here one March.
Motorbike-
beheaded
life,
tended to no more.
The birds chirp,
along the seasons,
the rain falls,
erases
shadows.
Only the cross remains.
Erect.
Forgotten
Excalibur.