Late morning breezes stream over murky undergrowth,
where dismal looking cats and twirling things
move in the wind.
Here, there has been the tilt and thrust of truncated pillars
and archaic pedestals, close to where Norman and
Gothic headstones stand.
The sun descends on a Cupid that sits with broken legs.
Here a tree-cutters tomb is etched with a
forestry song.
A Rabbi is remembered for his alluring rituals by
some, who now seek new things.
Their senses are sometimes distracted by an
aromatic smell as they ponder wild
gooseberries, high on a
crude embankment.
A man leans forward and seems to pull an unseen
object from a space, then reads words on a stone
with a serious necessity.
A woman, who seems wrapped in resentment, walks
up and down the grave-row paths, but is able to
control her narrative; then wanders around
like a displaced child. Here, people stand
bereaved by a new plot; each looks a little
adrift. One has hands that shake
involuntarily. Her voice is an
octave lower than usual;
it wobbles when she
speaks.
Then, at night, pranksters reel off drivel or throw rocks
into trees over the fence, then look with inquiring
glances at a high sparkle in the night sky.
Here, the moon grows slight above birds that are
nourished while pecking insects from the
cemetery lawn.
James Fagan,
Palmerston North, NZ
