It is noon and All Saints.
Remembrancers out early
Have decked headstones
With chrysanthemums,
The flowers of the dead.
Over-exposed to
Remorseless cold,
Yellow, white and purple heads
Blanch visibly,
Shiver next to
Candle- flames,
Companions in
Missed presence.
In Garwolin
The cemetery
Teems with the living,
Its paths impossible to pass.
Among scores of
Flower- and candle-
Bearing mourners, men
Unseasonably dressed
In blue-checked,
Short-sleeved shirts
Dig graves for
New recipients.
Tonight, the flickering
Lights will form
An eerie landing strip,
Perpetuating hopes –
Come nightfall –
That something might
Descend
Or rise.
(Windows, 20, eds. Heather Brett and Noel Monahan. August 2012, p.111)