Tears tumble from her eyes,
trickle down the plumpness of cheeks;
Looking at such a face, it seems as if this sorrow will never be quenched
I watch the men shovel.
They are wearing good clothes;
some in leather shoes, some in leather jackets.
There are three spades and nine men.
They take their turn at filling the hole;
spade in, scrape, lift and empty the soil into the hole.
Wet patches under their arms –
one takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow
also his eyes, secretly dripping.
The hole fills and still they continue.
the mound grows until it is the accepted shape.
It marks the spot.
Everyone else watches, under umbrellas that drip rivulets
on to their shoes.
The choir sings, the preacher preaches
and the rest of us cry.