CROSSES AND GRAVESTONES BREAK MY VIEW
Crosses and gravestones break my view.
To the left, I see you, bending
To arrange a jar of flowers;
The winter sky dulls your presence:
Charcoal figure, Van Gogh peasant.
Now kneeling, you recall a prayer.
My lack of Welsh locks out the sense;
But the grammar of sobs I know.
No priest, no poet, no actor
Could vinegar my wound like you.
You stand and gather up your things;
Then blackly walk the narrow path.
Your grief is deep - and so is mine;
Yet your strange prayer suggests that faith
Does visit your dark house of hurt.
I stare down at my child son’s grave;
I say no words to cross or stone,
As my clenched hands hold crumbs of dirt.
Published in VISITORS by Peter Thabit Jones, Seren Books (1986)