Graveyard in November
It is early November.
Rafters and stained glass glow
In candlelight and
The eulogy crackles from the pulpit
Like frost over oak leaves.
Each snow flurry marks another
Melted year. Gone and forgotten.
The ghost trees hover.
I watch their sucked-out leaves
Rotting with moss and mildew.
The gleaming grave
Stands like a door
Without handle or hinge,
It’s only pathway through the soil.
One touch turns me to stone.
Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or
forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Ink
in Thirds, The Penwood Review, Interpreters House, The Chiron
Review and Rust and Moth. This year her poem, 'Sunday School',
was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be
released by Bitterzoet Press this year.