10 seconds to lower the coffin and my eyes

Had an artist captured the sky it would look false.
grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive canopy of a large bold oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar,
eyebrow caterpillars twitching with his words.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus,
his lips stick thin lines of spit onto stained teeth.

Starch collar too tight for a grubby index finger.
Ink and paper bound biblical.
Shirt buttons taut over a pot belly,
stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades, flat under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
heavy clumps of clay lighten the colour burial earth.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a forgotten river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and rouge.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms writhe through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood,
it's only a matter of time, as the first shovel-full lands,
and makes me look up.