The dead lay next to the railway
in a small triangular yard where
two young boys lay down wreathes
and ask their uncle; “Where do they go?”
Hay bales wrapped in black plastic
rise like islands from a deep brown lake
that was a cornfield two days before,
now sodden sheep graze on the shore.
Cars roar past with an almighty splash,
driving up droplets that cover the road
and spray onto windows, little rivers
with no hope of reaching the ocean.
Rolling valleys of green and brown
fields tucked behind hedgerows
are drenched; they thirst no more,
like the dead, they thirst no more.
The boys and their uncle stop off
in a pub on their way back home
to where their mother waits, alone
sat sipping gin next to the phone.