Monday, October 16, 2006

A Gravedigger's View.

The Sunday myth
springs afresh
from the death of some old stranger.
Cold now, cold as the church that received him,
rigored in coffined darkness,
eyes closed on eternity.
The end of a friend to some,
but no-one I knew.

The fragrance of funeral wreaths
ghosts across the graveyard -
The sweetness of life expressed by
the freshly doomed.

Black draped figures
shuffle the broken path
to where Earth awaits the return
of her loan.
They stand in silent murmurs
as the grave gathers the tribute,
while rooks,
all feathered up in widows’ weeds,
croak the dirge.

In the spring rain,
a muddy shovel
pats out
a final farewell.

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