Keeper
The first time I stood here was to lower him into the ground. He had given me the paperwork for this plot after he paid for it in full, seven years ago. The view surprises me; across the valley Shallee Mountain and Keeper Hill look just as they do from the door of his homeplace, the house where he and his siblings, living and dead, were born. You can spot its roof beyond Delaney’s fifteen acre. Twisting and narrow, the lane that brings you here is just wide enough for a car, or hearse, to get through. It horseshoes off a minor road and is often impassable in winter.
to my father’s grave
walking the last mile
snow to the ankles
published in Seashores, Vol. 9, Nov. 2022
Moving
Christmas morning;
arriving first at Dad’s grave
my shadow
“Robert rang yesterday sayin’ he’d had a moving experience. He moved into the hospice above in Harold’s Cross. The beds there are like gold dust and he reckons he only got it ‘cos it was Christmas Eve, then he added that the down side is that this is his last move, or maybe last stop, he said one of those. Anyway, would you keep an eye out for him – I’d appreciate it. Your grave is looking well. Someone put a pot of Christmassy flowers into the holly wreath I brought you during the week. The whole place looks nice, holly wreaths everywhere, and it’s a good day, mild enough. I’ll head on below to the Christmas dinner. Only a couple from across the water this year, there’ll be loads next year. So, keep a watch out for Robert for me, will ya? And Happy Christmas, we’ll miss you at the table.”
Celtic Cross;
at the tip of an icicle
a swell of water
