The small group sat
in their fold-up chairs,
watching, as the heavy,
clawed bucket was freed to gravity,
and dropped forcefully
onto fresh-mounded earth.

One time.
Thump.

Two times.
Thump.

Three times.
Thump.

It was an unusual way to commemorate.

Perhaps they should have
taken their cue from that awkward pause –
the one just before the Bobcat driver began
scooping up the sweet-soil and
dropping it into the hole.

Thump.

Or when the starch-iron man
hesitated, as if waiting for his own cue,
before flipping a lever and
slowly lowering the container into the ground.

Thump.

It could have been the
fading of the dirge –
as the bagpiper walked through the site,
beyond the site,
well past the site and
over a neighboring hill.

Thump.

Or perhaps the nod and the last word spoken.

“Amen.”

Thump.

There is no telling, really,
when the things of life will end.

Thump.

Closure
© 2009 Mark Pearce