driving past the local cemetery

one bitter winter weekend

the last year of my marriage

love vandalised

land laid bare

new vistas revealed

no insights offered


my four year old son

lights upon

bright flowers bunched

on graves set

against the basalt sky

and asks

why do they bury people

when they die


my inadequate reply

death as returning

offering back

something he might comprehend

but not fully understand


we are all one step

closer to the end

without a destination


all meaning

captured in his face

in the rear view mirror

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