I did not watch them shovel dirt on him,
After he was laid in the cold black earth;
Surrounding faces seemed so wan and grim,
Staring at the blank ledger of his worth.
Though hymns were sung, were none I do recall,
No words the preacher said rang clear, not one;
Someone mumbled something, and tears did fall,
With grey heaven above and a wizened sun
Looking down on black ants, that moved in mime.
I recall only sadness that day in June,
And many cheeks blanched by hot sweat and brine,
A world numb with voices out of tune;
A feckless god in an amorphous sky—
And eyes bled red when all the grief ran dry.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.