Blackbirds

 

The cemetery clock strikes two. Under grass, trees and masonry They are digging, shovelful by shovelful,through the dark. The cemetery railings keep the living out at night. During the day people come with dogs and flowers, walking under cypresses, past wastebaskets, taps, wateringcans, along rows and rows of names carved on stone slabs,lopsided now, subsiding into voids. The angels who have given up the redroses of their smiles,dig through earth with the cool wet twist of worms.