Sunday:
flowing water,
eight men and one other.
“Close the gates, steady;
left foot up together; lift...”
and the wooden shell swings,
rides easy on firm shoulders,
the last living drops bright in
the wind,
the boat nursed carefully a while,
an interruption in its journey.
A solitary swan swings,
bow-winged,
from the bend of the river,
appearing suddenly from light,
purposing to be gone with each
slow beat,
to be out of sight.
Monday:
falling rain,
six men and one other.
Silent signs for lifting,
a steady six-foot up together -
and the wooden shell swings,
rides easy on firm shoulders,
the last loving petals drifting
down,
the coffin carefully at rest,
an interruption in its journey.
A calm heron eases from the mist,
from the edge of low sky;
he rows down-wind
for the constant hidden river,
dissolves from sight.
(June,
1990)
