Rough-cut with a scythe from the look of it
and left for the sun to turn to straw
above an underlay of sappy new growth.
A sickle or a pair of garden shears
would’ve helped make a better fist
of trimming the spaces between graves,
but mightn’t have seemed worth the sweat
on a hot day. A bit like hard labour,
all that back-breaking kneeling and bending.
Below the gravestone, someone’s propped
a child-size, plastic model of a female
superhero among the wild flowers.
There’s a tub chock-full of biros as well,
enough ink to write the story of a lifetime.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ken Head would be pleased to
hear from you.