The Boxwood tree and the graveyard man

Inhale the rich damp smell of the soil dredged up from far below,
then heaped upon green grass.
Now see them come.
See the fakeness of their thin smiles
and dripping eyes that are covered in black
to conceal the dirt within.

The good book is opened
words spill out and pool at their feet.

Emotionless faces turn away.
The swampy earth makes sucking sounds
as the glue of it tries to feast on their shined shoes.

There stands the Graveyard Man emotionless
under a Boxwood tree
waiting for the echoes to die away,
a spade galvanized to his hand.
The sun now pale and warm, as the dark suits melt away.
The coldness of their gestures peel off
and flake
like the egos that they spawn
their fake tears are now dried in the evening sun.

Quietness now rules at the end of the day
as the hand turns the spade
and the damp smell of the soil
is returned to Mother Earth.