Cemetery

Beneath tilting tombstones
Where moles make hills of clodding earth
And twin chapels watch over
troops assembled in uneven rank

Heavy crosses weigh down the graves
And mud subsides beneath the load
Lichens supernova over decades
And moss picks out dates
On stones weathered sharp as flint
a son, lost to war
lays beside proud parents
who raised him a monument
to shame his neighbours

There,
in December chill,
under a low sun,
and a spreading oak,
where foolish birds and squirrels pass the hours,
she kneels, and dresses her dead with flowers.