‘Let the dead bury the dead!’ he cried
safe from shocked eyes of his mother.
But he had planed coffins, so knew
the dead belong to each other,
as wood fell, in pale silk curls,
which nested on shadowed boards there,
until his brush whispered it out,
to chickens, the yard and the air.
Alison Brackenbury

If you have any comments on this poem,  Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.