Lying for all Eternity in the Long Grass
He leans his elbows on the straight-cut sides,
tells me he used a ladder when he first began –
Who would fancy being stuck down here? he grins.
Now, he says, he jumps – and shows me how,
touching his palms to the sore earth, springing out.
He’s sun-baked like old pots, says that’s what
he often finds down there – fragments mostly.
He takes a flask of tea and offers me.
I shake my head. He lays his spade aside,
perches on a tombstone, motions me to do the same.
I refuse again.
He laughs. They’ll never know, poor sods.
What matters is the living. The dead
are solid weights and it can be a nasty shock,
that thud, so me, I line my graves. Always.
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