Augustian Night

August night Dark, starless night sky, a sliver of the moon golden scythe is mowing down the old. Harvest time, forgot to close the window, a chill settles in ancient lungs evil coughs. Church bells toll the day; the day is hot and gives nothing away, the old priest is on holiday. The locum is clumsy, hasn`t had a bath for months, a murmur of discontent. The cleric sweats there is a smell of booze a church's reject; they do take care of their own. This isn`t swine flu nothing to report, the old dying as they must