The resting place

The resting place.

A dark rectangle of

Suffolk flint.

Sand and sorrow

nestle side by side

the willow casket.

The fine rain drifts,

as our thoughts do.

Hunched, remembering.

And the tall

Shelter the small

and we are brief.

The vicar is black and white

and brings a touch of

Mary Poppins

with his small black umbrella,

but we are yet

to see him fly.

His words are sufficient

and soothing

and glide over our

sombre frames.

Cloaked more in rain

than in sadness on this day.