a handful of hangers on at the wake

uncles shabby in black & that kestrel is back

perched on the fence near the wet washing judging

the mud on my dress shoes my arms full

of finger sandwiches & the toll of church bells

behind me muted cries from the schoolyard

a Monday breeze as I whisper before the casket

there is no-one to blame for rain at the funeral

for a son’s share of an inheritance his sister polishing

silver in the cellar her fingers clasped in prayer

no harm in believing this is what Mum wanted

before she shuffled off her possessions picked over

a carriage clock candlesticks sunbleached on the mantle

carving up the curtains crimson thread clinging to the knife

through the kitchen window I hear the falcon drag its dead

onto the grass crying first in hunger then in triumph