The Sin Eater

the man is dead, words that moan like north-wind over sea mounts, swirling through stunted grass, over the warped threshold, around discarded shrouds, piled around a rough bier, holding once a rougher man, this dead man, this no-man, unsung but for briny ocean song, brackish and cold misted on ashen mourners, kneading sullen dough, leavened for this once man, an erstwhile man's corpse bread, laid out on pewter, arranged close to his head, pinch of salt, a tarnished groat, bitter draught of ale, offered by rote, for his peace beyond, the pawning soul, quiescent duty of an elder son, then the sin eater, now to run, king of no kingdom, scion of none, the man now lives.