Limp

24 July 2012

I shall limp to my grave. No, no, that is wrong;
I shall lie on my back in a shiny black car.
Two uniformed men will manoeuvre my corpse
By trolley past tombstones and crosses and stars
To mountains of soil from a freshly dug grave.


There’ll be stony-faced men and eyes dabbing women
And maybe a whisper from one that I knew:
“He hated the sound of the dirt being shovelled
And crashing like drumbeats on him that I knew…”
But I will be still and in silence agree.