Were it not for the silver-plate teapot,
the sky reflected on its creased flank,
you would not know the grave was there.
It is just a bed of pale dirt, seed striking
among the scratchings of a little bird.
This, though, is a fine place to lie;
where any wind makes the trees shout,
where you can hear the river’s swell
and feel the rust on wrought iron.
He lived here all his life –
just across the road.
His was a little house with a tiny porch.
It had no frills, and neither he.
He sought nothing more than sun and food,
a place to lie old his head.
He walked the square section,
thought a garden would be nice.
Not that he bothered.
He did make tea, though.
It was always his hand on the pot.