|
Burial party
A unique quiet, loud in silence,
follows on volleyed rifle fire.
Raggle-taggle rooks tumble
along wind eddies,
returning to nest-cluster forks
in the far graveyard elms,
complaining done.
Irrelevant thought. Of
toasted crumpets, butter-drenched,
planned for tea when this is over
to drive cold death fingers from lonely bones.
Doctors mutter and forbid it,
but you're a long time dead.
You're a long time dead.
Stark thought drags attention back.
A straight-backed bandsman draws breath,
raises cornet to the sky.
The Last Post heart-notes fall
over open grave,
over rifle detail,
over grey headed men.
Fresh mud streaks the bottom of the vicar's robe.
It'll brush off easily enough when it's dry.
Somerset 1998
|