In New Malton, there is dignity in death,

When you have coughed and hacked your final breath.

A single bed to sleep in, on your own,

Horizontal, blameless, alone, in peace,

In regular, neat rows of fine-cut stone,

With plastic flowers placed at the head.

A dignity, denied to the living,

Is generously bestowed on the dead.

 

The fallen leaves obey clean symmetry

In this immaculate cemetery.

There is seemliness and stately order,

A spare summation of a life well spent,

At odds with the chaotic lives the graves frame.

There are no dark struggles to make ends meet.

No endless arguments, with frantic heat.

Death expresses kindness and gives you a name.