At the cemetery

I was at the cemetery today

and things were in their place.

The iron gate was owlish

—always on nightshift

even at midday.

The crows shrieked

and passing freights came moaning back.

The grey sky

spat

weak rain.

Things in their place

—the world in emo at the cemetery.

But what of the graves?

What of the death

that whispered secrets eternally ignored?

Even there,

Death seemed strange

and out of place.

Even there,

at the cemetery,

Death was impossibly awkward.