I drift uncolored
in this ashy light
past crow-topped, brambled
wall, with this dark throng
who heft your bulk
through lych gate,
tipped stones- ivy age-edged names,
past plots and urns, mute epitaphs.
Here flocks of starlings crest
in muffled clatters
and mourning cries,
rooks spin up,
a scatter of hand-cupped stones,
their wings cast geometrics, dark
and imperfect across the green.
It could be some summer Sunday
brunch - cloths spread laden
with jellies, hams, cheese crusted
casseroles-but here are women,
hatted, veiled,
pale as bones and milk.
Beside this grim gouge
in black earth, I crumble bread crusts,
align small white stones
in an ever-widening spiral.
Your blades expand,
a richer, lusher green
trimmed in shade
and pall-dusted wings, while folded
into the voice of grief, I seem
some latter-day Demeter,
who waits for spring.