Beneath the elms of Flagstaff’s quiet green,
Where Melbourne’s towers soften into air,
They stand—half flesh, half legend—newly seen,
With painted bone and borrowed mortal stare.
The woman wears her roses like a crown,
Dark petals braided through her careful hair;
Her eyes, ringed deep as though the grave looked out,
Hold life intact, alert, and fully there.
Lace sleeves recall a gentler, older age,
When mourning dressed in patience, not in haste,
And grief was stitched with ritual and grace,
Not hidden, hurried, or politely faced.
Beside her stands the man in hat and beard,
His smile a crease time cannot quite erase;
White shirt, black brace, a bloom upon his chest
A gardener of memory and place.
His painted skull does not deny the heart,
But frames it, like a memento made to teach
That love survives the narrowing of breath,
And meaning outlives what words can ever reach.
Before them, small as any human hope,
A child in bones that merely play at death
Licks sugar from a stick, amused, unafraid,
Proving joy needs neither depth nor breadth.
The skull upon his face is only art;
His living pulse corrects the borrowed lie.
Here death is costume, not a closing door,
A story told so life may answer: why.
And Flagstaff Gardens listens, old and kind
Once burial ground, now cradle of the day
Holding the past and present intertwined,
Where ghosts and children learn to share the way.
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