One More Flower For Your Grave

One more flower for your grave,
of tender petals made of gold.
Stem cut, and dying in the sun
in peace, like someone very old.

I stand and feel the August wind.
The ochre clay,
and violet sky.
A distant music in the fields
and smells of wood-smoke far away.

And down, a flower for your grave.
A yellow voice in silent stones.
I turn and leave it lying still
and walk alone back to our home.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.