Wednesday 14 August 2019

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
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.

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