Dads Grave

The grave stands alone in the ramshackle church yard

clean and fresh, words cut in stone, clear and scarred,

cellophaned Tesco flowers with handwritten notes of love,

scattered among the wet grasses and the well trodden mud.

Cold wind picks up speed and dampness fills the space,

a dogs warning bark carried from a unknown, far-away place

dads graveside resting place falls silent once again

as we take the longest walk we have ever had to wend,

dressed in Sunday best, all looking smart and neat,

leaving our precious dad behind, a family incomplete.