BURIAL GROUND

Elephant-skinned trees, a tumble
Of cold stones, a litter of leaves
And beyond these
Neat grey rows.
Against a pale grey sky,
A stone-cold angel lifts her granite hand,
Her full skirts
Unruffled by the wintry leaves, and at her feet
A small squirrel buries her sweet fruit.
He does not mark the place with stone
Or twig, nor do his bead eyes read
The inscription on the stone.
He knows what he knows.
The nut will be dug up.
The roots of the trees go deep.
They remember the sun and the rain.
We have no roots. We do not remember long.
We bury our dead
And carve their names in stone.