Gravedigger
I have been working on long poems of late. I think they are a great form in this day and age: long enough to enable development; enough content to engage; short enough for the shrinking attention spans. Here is my first published one (almost 15 years ago). I hope some readers will enjoy it and search out more long poems.
Gravedigger
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,—
Wail, for the world's wrong!
"A Dirge", Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1822
***
the fence was old
well built
six by six posts
one inch pine boards
but like the twigs and
wrist-thick branches strewn
about the yard
it may as well have been
matchsticks
in face of the storm
two sections lay on the grass
splintered slats and braces
torn from the broken post
snapped at the dirt line
a stub poking
from the ground
like a yellow tooth
in a rotten gum
he’d slept through it
however fitfully
the wind infiltrating
board and baton
through any warp
or wow
creaking his house to
the very foundation
moaning its promise
of breakage
now he crawled
along with morning
through heat
stagnant and tangible
all traces
of cool
or comfort
or breeze
dead from the gale
scraping sleep and sweat
from his eyes
he saw the broken fence
the hole grinning
he raked the inconsequential
damage into piles
the unbroken boards were
stacked
by the shed
to be reused
stripped of their bent nails
the minor tasks done
he traded rake
for shovel
begrudging the chore
of pulling the stump
***
dust rose
suspended
particulate in the viscous calm
sticking
with each strike
to his hands and face
he drove through the sand
the clay
the pea-gravel
hacking at the bigger stones
the fist sized ones
punching rust from the spade
exposing old silver
rolling the edge he’d faithfully
kept sharp
it took nearly an hour
to expose two feet
of the six by six
to loosen the rough concrete
footing
with boot kicks and phlegm globs
a chain and the pickup
would finish the job
he leaned
chin on hands
atop the weatherworn handle
resting
gazing at the cattails
arrow-straight
across the way
suddenly spotting a glint
of colour
of movement
nearly imperceptible
through the haze-shimmer
in the burned out field
not the usual children scaring
crows or chasing grasshoppers
no life
in what he saw
he walked
focusing on details
revealing themselves
checkered hunting jacket
grey hair
maybe a pack
he called out
approaching
a supplicant on bent knees
silent
he shouted again
an old man
turned
his worn face
for an instant
before returning to prayer
it wasn’t a pack
he heard the flies
from a dozen paces
droning at the carcass
before the old man
drawn by the gravity
he saw the tatters
flaps of fur of blood of dirt
and the flies
my dog
damn wind blew the gate open
she weren’t no hunter
not a chance against them coyotes
he took in this death
throat ripped
removed
rear legs at wrong angles
flesh punctured
eyes filmed cataract-like
but worse
muzzle snarled
lips torn
the teeth revealed yellow and red and black
and the flies
blue eyes swell-rimmed
and leather skin tear streaked
when she didn’t show up last night
I knew it wasn’t gonna end well
he held back the clichés
platitudes and lies
mouthing I’m sorry
ashamed of its insignificance
***
chuck
chuck
chuck
the pine boards
clacked together
in the truck bed
then the shovel
and a piece of tarp
cut to size with his Case knife
at first the old man
refused
then reconsidered
unable to leave her there
alone
unable to carry her
a few miles
through the lea
with his bad leg
they built the stretcher
in the field
used it to heave
the ungiving mass
into the pickup
they didn’t speak
much
bouncing down the country road
a few cursory details
down the way
a widower
just a daughter long gone
and it ended
abruptly
signalling the trespass
into no-man’s land
it was a quaint farmhouse
well maintained
deepset at the long drive’s end
lined with cedar hedges
the parterre dotted
with rock gardens
weeded and tended
abloom with stock still lilies
they unloaded the corpse
pall-borne away from
the stones of the drive
onto the dry
yellowing grass
I’d offer you a drink
but you understand
it’s somethin’ a man’s gotta do
on his own
***
he watched him in the rearview
the old man dragged his dog
a little ways
limping
before disappearing
into the house
gravel pinged the wheelwells
***
crows broke at the shot
flying from their shady haunts
***
skids across the lawn
sidestepping the carcass
he’d just left
but shouldn’t have
inside
the farmhouse
was neat
a picture that should
have smelled of apple pie
not
an old man on the floor
of the kitchen
leaking
partial face
reeking of smoke
teeth and bone
lead-shattered
arms uncomfortably wrapped
around the carved
stock of the rifle
he was sick
from stink and sadness
touched nothing
called the police
***
the paramedics worked
slowly
unhurried
placing the old man
on a gurney
in a black bag
he told the police
the little he knew
as the ambulance
pulled away
without lights or sirens
gravel pinging the wheelwells
***
he found her name on
a letter marked return
to sender in a drawer
in the old man’s room
just a daughter long gone
who called him a bastard
who wondered how he’d
gotten her number
who told a story about the
old man breaking a bag of
marbles in a rage when she
was just six turning her
favourite one to dust when
mom had finally had it and
left and took her away
for good
who called him a bastard
again not as loudly
asking him if a bastard
like that deserved any
better than dying alone
and again in a whisper
hanging up the phone
bastard…
***
he sat in his truck
waiting for the oppressive
heat to set
with the sun
behind the cedars
night came
before he worked up
the courage to get his shovel
and drag the dog
behind the house
where
he found
a fitting plot
he dug
with ease
a breeze starting to stir
gently whispering through
the trees
drying his brow
pushing a line of clouds
across orion’s
belt
he dug
through topsoil
and soft earth
a shallow grave
for a stranger’s
dog he never knew
gently rolling the body down
into the pit
where it lay
peaceful
in its decay
the moon catching its eyes and teeth
turning them white
for just an instant
before the first
shovel load
***
tomorrow he would
mend his fence
tomorrow he would come back
with a proper marker
made of one inch
pine
wondering what he should inscribe
on the crossbeam
for the stranger
wondering what a daughter would inscribe
on a headstone
for the bastard
R L Raymond, Originally published in "Sonofabitch Poems"
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