The death of a distant relative

We may be born to the lark or owl
But some of us will leave to empty
Benches.

Here lies a distant relative. Whose
Birthday and Christmas cards would
Arrive on time, a £5 note
Pressed inside.

The Minister shovels his sodden, rotten
Words until they fall in clumps to join the
Heavy clods of graveside clay.

Here lies a distant relative
In whose oak cupboard we used to hide.
It now seems to be on its side, with her
Inside.

Even God wants this over with, quickly. His fingers of
Rain drum impatiently upon the casket
And gravedigger’s wooden running boards.

We stare into the neatly dug hole and in
This instant, I realise this is the most real
You have ever been to me.

Here lies a distant relative.

Simon Denegri
December 2019

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