Preparing the ground.

My part of the world is bathed in a welter of autumn sunshine this morning. The earth is still damp from the early dew that will shortly evaporate; a breeze from nowhere is bending the stalks of late-flowering poppies that are growing in the long grass at the edge of the garden - a merriment of sweet refulgence decked out with butterflies. 

Drifting across to me from the honeysuckle hedge is the slightly ominous bombilation kicked up by several heavy, hairy bumblebees visiting blossom after blossom. They are no danger to the passive human observer of course, or to the cats who watch from a safe distance. 

In the graveyard beyond the hedge, safe from prying eyes, the gravedigger starts his sorry work. Graves are always dug on the morning before the day on which they are needed. A wooden board is then placed over the open mouth to prevent anyone from falling in during the night if they choose to take a shortcut through the graveyard after an evening of spirited revelry at the pub. A green tarpaulin is draped over the pile of red clay to disguise it, make it look pretty, but there is no disguising death.