A Buriel
Softly, he goes to his grave
as the big black Mercedes rolls on
and men in wigs and gowns
condemn him.
His hair, glistens, white,
in the sunlight
as they lower him in
but not one cries.
The earth spits dust
at the dark blue, moody sky
and black crows
hover, squawking.
There is no one left,
only me, with my tears dry
as salt flakes
that burn my cheeks.
Too many disasters
have eroded my emotions,
my fears, anxieties
and now I am calm,
calm as a storm at sea
when the eye passes
over the mast
and the crew are silenced.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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