Ought they not appear like coaches
On time, yawning and black as crows'
Wings, glossy and damp, roaches
Glowering over the rim, and rows
Of rocks ready for throwing,
Rather than diggers of graves, punching holes
Box-edged, to put these round pegs into, knowing
Full well the end of these poor souls?
The mufflethud of earth, the one sound
Shielded in fear from a family,
Lives within the sponge of memory
Sopping tears from the flower mound.
