Paths lace without logic
through graves who
together say: you, Griever,
know nothing about death.

Nor do we, we are
hard manifest loss,

we absorb your shining ache
know how good you really are
at loving when the
complicated body is gone.

Leave us amongst
chest-high cow parsley
(its sweet dust)
for something new:
an exactitude
rises around,

this mistake turned precise
carries you, introduces you
to clearness and a chapel
everything pointing
strongly up and up.

Discovery is its
deconsecrated insides
gone back to the birds
no pews or flowers
graphically empty
of books.

Look here for death
find love
ancient old crusty overgrown

This poem was read as part of festivities at the National Day of The Dead, 14 April 2002, and will appear as part of the ‘Word On the Street’ exhibition at the Stoke Newington Festival later this year