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.
