Scene: a small graveyard surrounding the church of St Mark outside Vienna, 7th December 1791 beside a common grave. Present: Sussmeyer, Salieri, Baron van Swieten.
Shivering in the cutting East wind, I gaze about.
Where are all the people?
There should be crowds.
Why aren’t people lined up ten deep around
this insignificant hole?
This death affects the entire world.
Babes unborn will be lulled by his work.
Generations to come will mourn
this life cut short unjustly.
The scent of crushed grass tickles my nostrils,
Making my eyes water unaccountably.
Grown men don’t cry. Do they?
The Poet’s Pub suggests that we write a ‘history’ poem – our own, or someone else’s, recent or back in the past.