Orchard
Through damp and dewy grass steps a man,
Then a line of people walking,
Bearing up the woven wicker casket,
Faces up-turned, wondering, quietly talking.
Beyond the farm, before the woodland
Lies the old orchard, long-abandoned trees,
Grass grows longer every Spring,
And apple blossoms blizzard in the breeze.
Shafts of sunlight dapple the procession,
Making its determined way:
A purposeful expedition,
Come because they still have much to say.
Quiet dignity settles around these walkers,
Making their way within the glades,
Arriving at the place where two men stand,
Discreetly waiting, leaning on their spades.
A special spot, where a grave is dug,
Bearers pause, shift the weight, lower the bier,
The others slowly gather round,
Begin their farewells in the grove that’s here.
Each taking an unbidden turn to speak:
No need for a man in black who leads.
One will sing, one recite a poem,
A child steps forward and slowly reads.
Sudden silence falls across these friends,
Then some gentle weeping’s sound.
Fresh flowers placed upon the coffin,
As it is slowly lowered in the ground.
Blossom rains into the gaping grave,
Perhaps some promise of re-birth.
Mourners begin to think again of the living,
Turning their backs upon the mound of earth.
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