The Grave

The small flat-snouted eels of the river
tasted finer that summer

and I remember the mud banks stank,
sunning themselves.

A heavy marble cross was laid at your head
And silence, in which to visit.

I made a pact, and old customs
are immutable.

The deep chisel marks that cut
have softened now,

dates look less final
and the full stop after your name has not endured.

She might even smile at my yellow posy,
If she saw.

Robert James Berry

If you've any comments on this poem, Robert James Berry would be pleased to hear from you.