WILDFLOWERS COVER EVERYTHING FOR FATHER PATRICK DESBOIS

And the priest reports
A few villagers,
Aged but still living,
Remember

The festival days.
Mozart was played.
Strudel was served.
And beer.

There will be no towers
Of shoes or dentures,
No photo galleries,
No lampshades or gold teeth.

I write this poem
And Father Desbois does what he can
To survey, to count, to record,
But they were millions.