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Poem	a cold bright sun two days to christmas a first-quarter moon at a good vantage-point a small white coffin driven slowly uphill from the cemetery gate to the minimal grave fifty people attending unexpected collection of nettle-stung hearts at a barely-lived dying a shuffling past yews thoughts finding rhythm a lightness that bred from a silent aceptance a red-arrowed plane in single formation scissored the sky's blue above the procession sagittarian arrow a sizzling of fire an unconscious dipping of wings in salute to a baby whose burning from birth to departing took thirteen fast days from rain into sunshine till almost the hilltop the hole with its mound a circle of people shared its raw hollow no vicar no service a speaking of poems cotoneaster sprigs dropped into the grave the red plane returned cut its own circle honoured the sunlight and passed by the moon from a treetop nearby a sharp-singing blackbird trilled its objective gold-beaked lullay the grave was filled in the high hill deserted and down in the valley a rare christmas came
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