Six women dig a hole Poem by Piet Gerbrandy

Six women dig a hole.

The first one's hut? Cupboard in a wall
lair in child-high nettles her letters
maze of layers of paper with a ribbon.

The second looked on night as day
swathed her thundering body in blankets thought no
path worthy of her feet save rails.

A kiss from the third caused sore hurt
to her lips that tasted of all that the earth
brought forth appraised it and spurned.

The fourth was one-eye in months of light
of faultlessly doing what was right in cramped
bed before tenderness turned to bitterness.

Who was five but the wench without ears?
She who could not believe in being? Knew neither
of birth nor promises unkept nor pain?

Clumsily soon the hand of the last
felt under beastless canvas for torch
to see whether words were still words.

Six widows carry the coffin.