Poem By William Richards
Sudden March winds carry high black
birds drunkenly across the blue grey above
the dark line of snaking cars below,
between the bending trees and sullen grass,
between the grey granite and dark marble pass
the subdued in black and grey, and darkest blue,
and each grave face tells of sadness and the loss
of another fallen soul, midst polite exchanges,
we wait our turn and patiently and politely queue,
as we reserved British are well renowned to do.
And when all songs are sung, all Eulogies made,
we spill into the light, where long shadows fall
across the scattered wreaths, with love,
across the chill breeze, surprising a twist of white,
ethereal smoke, whispering through the canopy above.
Our morning shadows fall, as Autumn's leaves,
filling the dark and silent earth beneath our feet,
gliding across the sentiments and moss-cloaked stone,
following the worn and twisted path of the spirits
of those who went before us, and are gone.