Gates Of St. Machar Cathedral Poem by Sheena Blackhall

I am standing in the queue waiting to die, quite near the front.
Not rushing, shuffling forward.
Not anxious, neither impetuous nor slow I shall not be sorry to go
I shall be nothing. The thought is quite exciting.
I shall enter into the quiet mouth of the earth like a whisper.
So inviting
To slide below the soil, a weary sleeper,
Drawing the grave-mould covers above my head,
The fathomless void... a black and a pleasant bed.
Folk say, there's no discourse amongst the dead.

I shall go like a fly to the waiting spider's lair,
I shall lay my hollow cheek by the winding worm,
I shall spill like an hourglass, breath turned empty air,
I shall be one with the yew and the granite urn.
Slowly the queue moves. Light gives way to black.
Nihil. The place where none come tell-tale back.