Mourning Poem III

Sonnet: Away from the Flock          

(with apologies to Damien Hirst)

I met the vicar locking up the church

As I began my evening walk alone

She asked me how I was?  I had to search

For something non-committal to atone

Unanswered emails since my father’s death.

I soon escaped and trudged my way again

To where the boats are moored, but on my breath

Unholy curses, heathen psalms of pain

That both my parents died within a year.

Across the water, sheep were grazing grass

And, nothing knowing, showed no spark of fear

That we might kill and eat them.  All things pass.

The village priest sees sheepfolds in the sky

But I, like any beast, was born to die.

Mourning Poem II

Auto da Fe

When the car is mended

I’ll go and fetch my Dad.

He’s just a box of ashes now.

It’s sad.

He used to drive me pensive places

“Penny for ’em, Son!” he’d say.

I’d slam the door and pull impatient faces,

Walk away.

I’m at the ‘Daddy’s Taxi’ stage myself,

The kids are still too young to drive,

Though time has chained their darling ankles, yet

They thrive.

The sexton’s dug the grave again,

We’ll bury Dad with Mum.

Two boxes, same cold slot of earth:

Both dumb.

The motor’s been away awhile,

They’ll fix it at some cost,

My parents languish, past repair

Lost, lost, lost.