Give Me To The Soil
They struggle to bring him up, the slope is
steep, their heights uneven. They almost
lose him as they approach the crest
I look skyward to catch my laughter
Sombre faces serious stares,
forced silence and constructed grief
Painted by the influence of perception
assumptions deep as the ocean
The words spoken round the cut,
are long, laboured and clichéd
Pious, unctuous, heavy with faith
celebrating a life, itself a long sermon
I watch a woodpecker, radiant green
a blur of light. It flashes from tree to tree
scurries up the bark, knocks on wood,
cocks its head, takes flight – a whorl of colour
His female descendants come forth,
Cluster, then break into song, high and shrill
The words of their hymn competing with the birds,
whose song hold more warmth, more authenticity
When you think it would end, it goes on
I study the groups, tight family huddles.
I try to pick their expressions, attempt
understanding of their place in this play
A variety of masks displayed, none natural
But then how could they be? Though death
is part of nature, humans pretend it away
It is other, removed, divorced, unspoken
The bearers return, take up their load,
hoist him and swing him out over the void
Down he goes, almost tumbling headfirst,
but salvaged at the last possible moment
Then it’s done, a wooden box holding grave dirt
passes around the gathered – a mimicry of the one below,
A congregation of hands take their solemn pinch,
a token of the inevitable to lay a man to rest.
Unique the sound of earth hitting wood,
differs with each cemetery
Here it’s the slap of clay on pine,
hollow, though a body fills the cradle
The soil here is changed, altered by the dead
by the rot of bone and flesh, the wood and cloth
dissolving. Necrosol, the true alchemy of death.
Creation universal, born of nature and time
We break apart, voices low and reverent
I let them pass, fold into an oaks shade
There is no burden of grief for me, no sense of remorse
I search for it – the guilt does not come
Bury the old, their measure is complete
no sorrow for what was spent or wasted
Mourn the young, there is a loss
a branch snapped to soon, season failed to turn
Why linger at the grave? The dead do not dwell
they have dispersed, to who knows where
Their memory is claimed by the mourners
shaped to please their own desires
Give me to the soil, let the earth reshape me
not those who mourn, I will feed
the trees, sate the worms. May the memory
of me be the woodpecker’s quick flight
© Juliet Robinson 2025, all rights reserved
A Year of Time 