A Thankless Task
Here fifty-six lichen-dipped
granite bodies sunbathe –
some lean – some almost swoon
in April’s upset of unexpected weather
Here clippings
and rolled stripes of grass
mark long-sunk slopes
under headstones
A cartographer
had taken up mowing
and looked back
upon his day’s work
as a map folded open –
to be figured out
For him
that thought was wasted
There are no travellers here –
all trips are done
Quarter bells
serve no purpose
except to drown out
tinkling-bloody-wind-chimes
and
always ignored car alarms –
no one moves far
from these landmarks –
we are all within earshot
of cuttings of blades and spades
between those engravings
dead endings expose our half-thoughts
about stuff like
Crematorium or lawn cemetery?