Talking To the Dead
Mission half completed,
I’d watch from behind a tombstone quite a distance away,
the crowd gathered around my accomplishment
for someone else’s final resting place.
The cortege carried the coffin laid it at rest upon the slats,
tired repetitive words fall from lips, that refuse to lead
by example, the wake still heavy on his priesthood.
Begins, the lowering as sentiment takes one back
to a life not their own, while tears flow and cries
filter across the misty air, resound off the barren
limestone dry walls, that surround this place.
Folk begin to leave on what is now a two-way path,
this time anyway, while there is always one to linger a
little bit longer, a magic moment, a prayer or two.
My spade glistens ready for the strength of my arms,
like a ghost inconspicuous I walk to the mound,
ready to return my mornings work, each shovel full
of softer earth, I cover the polished pine wood box,
with a simple brass name plate, I apologise to the one inside,
and a week since was a walking talking identity.
I was only a 15-year-old lad, dragged into the world
of the dead, yet so much I did learn, they shown me the way
forward, with their silent answers, lit up my life taught
me respect, and dignity, for from where I stood, I look upon
the green fields the pastures and meadows created and laboured
on by those that lay in this small corner of the village.
So, to my father, and all of sundry, I say.
‘God bless you all’.
© Harry J Horsman 2020
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