All day the mist doesn't lift from the hills.
The bridle path fringes Deep Well Farm,
the name of which unhappily recalls
our gathering-round in the churchyard
yesterday lunchtime at the saucer-sized
hole the burly sexton had freshly dug
for someone—me—to tip the pulverised
ashes underground from the paper bag.
A hen pheasant Groucho-walks to heaven,
along a route that eventually leads,
if I followed it, to the Silent Pool.
Goldfinches in harmonic progression
tinkle with colours of abacus beads.
I chant aloud: ‘Michael John Roland Paul’.