People standing at graves
See their own reflections
In the epitaphs
Salute the dead
With flowers
And quiet nervous coughs
Hands smacking
Feet stamping
In the February frost
Bare trees ring the cemetery
Ghostly guards of honour
Skeletal stiff
Against the scything wind
Recalling their own Summer life
Rotting
At their feet
The dead are in the ground
Pushing
Through the leafy mound
A single snowdropp shivers
Piercing the silence of the mourners
A baby cries
© Ray Mather 1969
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem