It was his Birthday, the 1st of May.
A pleasant day in a graveyard.
The old drinking font for horses had petals floating in it.
An anonymous grief amongst the thousands had tossed them in,
Thinking it was a bin.
The rear windows of houses peer over the sprawling open section of the Graveyard,
Where he and Dotty, ‘no relation’, were buried.
Dotty died in 1898, while Dad had passed in 2013.
Her grave was taller, pointed and dilapidated,
Dotty’s stone always lead me to him.
The shine of a funeral car
and marching mourners
Snaked around the backside of the stones,
Snaking, black and close.
Open ground and green Astro turf spilled over the fresh earth wound,
‘On Eagles Wings’ was being sung.
They were too close to Dad and Dotty.
It would have been wrong to remind them that other people grieved here,
They only had an hour before the coffin became a tombstone.
My bike leaned against a tree, its leaves offering gracious shade.
I bit into an apple and read from a notepad.
Today this small suntrap, 100 meters from his stone,
He had a new grave.
I sang a song he liked in low tones,
And thought myself stupid.
I threw the spine of the pink lady in the dirt
as the procession passed back by me.
Today here was a new grave,
And seeds will grow here as soon.
The ubiquity of life.