The Journal Of The Dead Poem by Mark Heathcote

The Journal of the Dead, what would it read
today we eat-dust and walked on Duckweed
tonight, we all partied and waltzed through walls
disturbing the living with white overalls.

Tomorrow, truly who-knows-what that'll bring?
Floorboards' squeaking, a baby is mewling;
the graveyard was crowded, so I went for a walk
and then flew alongside a sparrowhawk.

It soared up -over an ancient coppice
chopped once a decade to warm some goddess
her flesh without fire, cold as a river.
That flows down the mountain through a fissure.

The Journal of the Dead, what would it read
today, Jesus blessed me with good old mead
I joined the flock pursued by a collie.
Ambling-like a lamb lost in the valley.

Closing this book, I now, too, must here go,
say amen and rest, like fresh winter snow
putting down pen. My own Journal is done.
The last page is written, goodbye everyone.