|n Shoreham Gravevard
This is not the last place,
Where the sun crosses like a corpse.
It is a vacancy.
Gray skulls smile like stones,
Their shaven heads nod in the wind
And the writing on their faces
Wears out like speech.
When we visit, we bring luggage,
Cases of smiles, bags of tears,
Heavy with experience, we drink the sky
We are tidy, although the grass muddles
The rain and a few birds
Miss their way overhead.
To show we ever came.
(First published in Envoi)