I really like this poem of mine. It comes from a story my dad has often told about a group of men digging a grave in the church cemetery where I grew up. My husband thinks it’s a little bit awful. What say you?
A MURDER OF CROWS
Men gather when a grave needs digging,
come together, crows for carrion,
perch on the lip of the earth and fall to work.
Solemnity is the order of the day, with
black coats carefully set aside, flapping
from fence posts and branches;
scarecrows to keep away the ghost of dying.
But like every gathering where men must work
there is a philosopher here, preening his feathers.
Propping himself up with a shovel he considers
the flock resting beneath the earth around them;
predicts a flurry of wings come Judgment Day.
A man squaring the corners of clay mutters,
“Shore will stink.”