Cobwebs hang white on the frosty air as digging begins
A lone bird on a bush makes its high call,
sharp as the wind through a broken window
a toothpick of noise
bouncing off damp bricks, that look as though they might fall softly
to the wet grass below
and lay hidden by tears
Is there anything more profound
than the mournful sound
of a shovelling spade as it fills in a grave
and closes the ground