The candlelight
is quickly spent
and piles
of empty plastic pots
inhabit
winter's graveyard
corners
. . . and oft to view
some nearby yard
as here in tangled weeds
behind the wall or fence
with stones
in order stacked
that once framed graves
. . . for there are
always
those who fail to send
those who fail to send
the periodic payments due
upon
some dear one's
some dear one's
heavenly
plot
plot
A beautiful poem Gwil. My first husband would have been put on a hill top for the crows had it be allowed - he did not believe in graveyard memorials - and yet he lies in one.
ReplyDeleteMy dad's memorial is the ancient old oak tree below which his ashes were scattered at a meaningful location finally chosen by my mother who kept them in the bedroom cupboard for 12 months before preforming the ritual together with my sister.
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