Wilting flowers on a sodden grave.
A stooping man keeps a soul alive,
The flowers he's brought, a little sun
In the churchyard when he's gone
Before a proper stone commemorates her
A fading paper says the grave of Ros O'Brien.
The verger has the other graves to tend,
The grass to cut.
The turfed heap of earth,
As anonymous as a pauper's grave.