"Village Scene, Lincolnshire"
Glimpsed from the bus, a
Pregnant hump of displaced earth
Piled to fill a grave.
Some flowers too - not many.
No hearse. No crowd of mourners.
A wreath shows Dad's passed.
Just “Dad.” Enough. Her father.
He had squeezed her hand
And breathed his last breath sighing
For loves past – and those to come.
The girl stood alone
Kicking at the grave earth pile
Wringing tear chapped hands
He was all she ever had
He was not much - just a dad.
A poignant vision
Too profound to fade away
Into memory
As the bus set off again,
It crossed my mind to wonder
Would tomorrow bring
Another graveside mourner?
As the graveyard thrives
The village slowly dies - then
Who will dig for the digger?
The bus returning
Twilight cools the lonely grave,
No sign of daughter.
A brooding separation
Hovers, heavy, lowering.
His best girl's home now
Making tea and being brave.
His remains remain
Slowly turning back to dust
In the sanctum of his grave.
Frances Macaulay Forde
Mon 3rd Apr 2017 02:21
From a small glimpse to the huge moment of death, effortlessly negotiated on a bus.
A devoted route, no chance of getting off, the inevitable loss of village and dad cannot be denied.
I still miss my dad after 34 years.
A deceptively clever poem. Thank you.