Birthdays at the Cemetary

In the shade of the silver birch
Where the birds greet with drawn out reply
We return. Yielding grief as though only
Yesterday the scattering of soil Echoed below.

Dew tipped, the blades shine our shoes
Mornings sun, lies low not yet ready to reach out
The chill bears testament to the position
A family at the grave of a birthday boy.

Despite your passing we fight to assure the
Letters of your name, rampant weeds
Concealing the history of our line.

In the foreground bearded with green time
Cracked slabs wilt with age-
Like vacant buildings in a disaster movie.
Stone crosses, ivy enshrouding the arms
Nothing but scarecrows of cold grey.

We bring you back to us. Place fresh flowers,
Wipe damp dirt from the stone
Gather crisp curled leaves throwing them
Skywards just to watch them fall,
Not for fun, but for the memory of youth.

There are fathers and sons, mothers and daughters,
Babies, and soldiers, leaders and the losers
Silhouettes of passing, lining the ground.
Visited only by the wind and rain.

Two kisses against the coldness of the stone
And we leave, taking the best parts of you home.

After Service Buffet

Some gorged on finger foods placed there a few hours before.
Cling filmed wrapped on the once packed family table.
How many candles blown, how many turkeys trimmed?
A C.D of soulful classics plays in the background
Gently ebbing the day onwards, silence still too raw.
Some get pissed, death of a loved one. One not seen
For eight years, a good enough reason to numb the
Pain of an indifferent wife, or an unfulfilling job.

The curtains are drawn, keep it private and low key
He was never one for chatting, he raised the garden
Fence to keep the neighbour at bay.
The widow walks with the weight of the day.
Accepting condolences as though they were apologies
What to be sorry for? It wasn’t your fetish for Asian girls
That gave him cancer. The grieved ones grandchildren
Frolic in the garden, on hearing of his death, they

Cried then resumed their gaze upon the cartoons.
His children each with their partners smile fondly
They’ve still got the long drive home. And so when all is
Done, when the leftovers of once life lay scattered
Upon the table, picked on, chewed on,
Gulped and drained, there is nothing left to do
But wash and clear away the day.

For The Rain, From the Grave

They carried me with the caution of a newborn:
Stern shoulders to careful to droop and grieve.
What the bearers of my casket concealed, their
Faces could not. Sunken eyes, ringed by
Fractured nights of sleep, levelled at the hole.

It rained that day; Children’s feet scampering
Across a floorboard. The patter of droplets upon my lid.
A gentle percussion tapping upon that which
Assured the finality of my life.
It was then that I felt the empty end of death
Not in my passing, not in their heaving breaths
Of mourning, but in the knowledge from this
Day on, when clouds open and shower below
I shall never feel it’s decent upon my body.

When finally I was lowered held for an eternity
From reluctant hands and lingering hears
It was not the thudding of soil I feared
It was the fading of the rain.