There is abhorrence in the landscape
where no flowers grow to hide the truth.
Beside the graves your tired soul keeps post,
unseen to watch us move for hours
towards the new digged hole
as one we loved the most is gone
and we must bury and move on.
The tree trunks stare at us,
their rinds are tortured faces,
disapproving of our thoughtless tred
disturbing as we pass their resting places.
Nothing is said. The rain falls
on the leaves above us and in a million shots
all hope of resurrection is destroyed.
Appalled the grass knows
that it will be crushed under our weight.
This is the date that no one wants to have.
The grave we lay you in, smells of decay
while all of us throw in a handful sand.
A scream comes from the earth,
she takes you back the way she gave you birth.
It was a phenomena when his wife stopped talking altogether
and in stead of making him her black burned meatballs
she just stared as if she had seen enlightenment or a ghost down the road.
People were surprised and called her holy, they only whispered in her presence.
When after a month she still sat there in silence
without touching her tea nor her Weetabix, her stout, her gin and tonic, her muffins, her duretics,
they worshipped her for this miracle of complete abstraction
as she was holy no doubt and people claimed they were healed by her stare.
Then this snotty boy from across the street noticed
how she was falling apart, smelled like a dead rat
and was it not a bit odd
that she had not taken a breath for thirty days?
Thank God the priest who came by every day
took the little pest home
where the sinner got a good spanking
for his disruptive behaviour.
Are flies not creatures of God as well?
…once we made babies
now we make an effort
same difference you claim