Funereal

I

Smoke from the allotments
might be papal, funereal.

The procession of crows
scouting my lawn for food

might replace the train
of cars; the wild-flowers bent

towards the ground onlookers
offering respect. The sky

offers no rain but a simple blue
that floods through everything

like light through a skull.

II

The wireframe trees speak
the language of grief. Cats

dare not scratch their bark
for fear of catching a word

that cries and screams. Birds
hop across the grass in search

of some other food, not what
these trees might offer.

III

The ballast of cloud might collapse
on the flats any moment now.

Sleeping neighbours turn to face
them like umbrellas. They wax

and wane with the sunlight trickling
through, every shadow nearby

slinking into the corners. Whatever
started is now finished.