i had mistaken myself for the graveyard
somewhere history closed its circle
with an indifferent embrace

mundane acknowledgements of life
were carved on granite marble sandstone
skull scapula and the long bones of my legs

on my arm were 500 years of names and dates
records of empires and distant wars
bodies brought from far away
the young and the very young

the widows’ years of survival were clocked automatically
years of hanging on out of duty and habit
like me lacking a reason to move on

then between my ribs i found one grave bare of markers
nothing but earth and in spring a sequence
snow drop crocus anemone
daffodil narcissus
tulip celandine bluebell

and when they died the creeping clover bloomed and hummed with bees
and when that blossom ended and the grass was cut
a soft turf filled with moss remained

a place where i could lie at rest
my father’s bones below smiling if bones could
i told you there was nothing

i listened to the drone of wind in distant trees
the melodic rustle of those nearby
then rose glad to celebrate with work
knowing every task contains its own communion
and its own ease

Cameron McClure

Cameron McClure doesn’t exist. He is the pen-name for a  permanently retired civil servant who lives in Northern Ireland and likes nothing better than competitive banter over a pint or two. He believes it will all come right on the night because he’s happier that way and no-one has yet proved him wrong though a lot of well-meaning people try to for some reason.

Selected byNolcha Fox
Image credit:Waldemar

Cameron McClure doesn’t exist. He is the pen-name for a  permanently retired civil servant who lives in Northern Ireland and likes nothing better than competitive banter over a pint or two. He believes it will all come right on the night because he’s happier that way and no-one has yet proved him wrong though a lot of well-meaning people try to for some reason.