To All Things Passing Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

When my grandfather died gloom
like clouds without rain
covered the farms, the roads
that joined one to another
and to the town. My grandmother grew silent
as flocks of birds descended to devour the corn.

Didn’t crack even a flicker when John
crucified my grandfather’s Sunday best
in the cornfield after a week.
She sat watching the sky
watching him stretched on her grief in the wind
waving to birds, to her, to the world, to all things passing.

Sat as the farm faded into autumn
and one arm was torn off the cross
and the other sagged
and did not wave any more
to the birds, to her, to the world
to all things passing

as the earth kept turning
through unravelling seasons.