No trumpet sounds for life-in-death;
there is no winding-sheet or mummy-cloth.
The entrails rot and deliquesce -
the darkness is not nothing;
no-one, nothing was nor is my debtor.
All life is death
and death's mistake is life.
Being with you
not civil partner, not wife,
was (when you were not morose)
as good as being solitary
the food was better.
(Love is just emotion,
life for most is drab devotion.)
solitary below the rich but thin alluvium
of loneliness upon the planet.
The hungry roots above are nourished
quietly, without mammalian kerfuffle -
Quince, Pseudopanax, Oak and Medlar,
Rose-bay Willowherb and nettle,
The badgers scrape and snuffle.