The Clouds Roll In from the North

Leaden sky,
The colour of my distant cousin, the Halloween ghost
Who is shaped like a grave marker.
In Highgate I linger underground for a while,
With my childhood,
And my dead limbs.

Here is a brother - he
Was buried with all his words.
His final act of theft was to extort literary history
To the tune of one exhumation,
But he was caught out by the policemen of indifference,
And here he rots, with all his florid stanzas.
Now, all here is all he’s been.