In Memoriam
for Adam
it remains for me to see three hundred
harvests, three hundred vintages.
—Ovid
dust churns
between the pews
I nudge simon
tell him how years ago
you dressed as a shepherd
complaining
the hymns
did your head in
or at harvest
the smell
of warm bread
you carried the wreath
down the aisle
now we carry you
pews creak
we exit
surprised
at the coolness
and the smell of
cut grass