DIGGING TIDES

Toil of sun smeared spade,
Forking limbs horizontal to
The hardening earth:
As a gravedigger reluctant, to
Leave further space for the dead.

The old man’s back buckles like
An old iron bridge bearing
Exhaust thrust of lorry pile up.
Age stoops into shed
Struggle to draw cigarette, to
Gates of his putrefied mouth.
 
Eyes blacker than crow feathers
Butterfly cadaver mascara.
Death at his elbow, vertebra
Valediction ropes
Memory to burnt bridges.

The old man feels fern & roots
Lapping his hips. He sinks into
Weeds and blued beetle nest.
Offering his lips to arid, dry air
Breathes prologue of night guitar;
Awaiting fret of moon mandolins.
 
Briar barbed wire
Ambuscades cherry blossom:
Gashed pink flesh, still rooted,
And the old man and me
Rake our thoughts
In shared seclusion.

He answers my inquisitive shrug
With a dislocated tongue:
We’ll bloody know when we find it.
We dug in celestial silence.

Rust metal met cardboard.
He cradles from grave, to
Cove under stairs.
Inscribes DO NOT DISTURB
And carefully locks the tomb.

After supper,
The old man trembles tea cup
Leaving trail of cake crumbs,
Bids adieu to the day, nurses
Blistered hands, antiseptic aroma.
 
Out of his sight, shingled vision:
Dimly lit rooms beholding life flux
Lit stones piled in pattern upon the hill
Sky pushing thru’ heavy weft of curtain, and
Distant savage stars.