A Wet Funeral

Author: Vincent Marmion


They gather like raindrops
Big, fat ones with grit at
Their nuclei

In the graveyard they form
A cloud, black and bursting
With knowing desperation

The Priest is the sun. He
Controls the blackness
Patronisingly, reassuringly

As He warms them with rays
Of spurious optimism. Hope
Is a best seller in graveyards

But they hold up inefficient
Umbrellas to block out
His persistent fear

They watch as absently
As possible as their coffin
Is lowered as ceremoniously

As possible into that dirty
Waterlogged hole as He
Shakes clay from a spoon.