At the Grave
As the rains came we followed
As the rains fell we listened
And walked towards the minister,
Passing by the dark grave wherein she lies,
To drop another daffodil, a final kiss from life,
On the pale box below.
And on, to cluster round beneath the trees
Circling the family, rooted by some strange harmony
Of communion: a drifting mass lost in loss.
On the hillside, as the first sods drop down,
They are united through twenty parting years
And peace comes to me in the silence
As the land heals its open wound.