Crows sit atop gravestones and caw.
Busted angel above,
rotting one below.
An eye drips tears.
A hand drips cheap flowers.
Black cloud quells trees,
And men, women,
dressed in their own black clouds,
creep silently toward a fresh digging.
Caw says the crow,
its vintage mockery of the great beyond.
If time is the human wing, it asks,
then why are there none of them
high in the treetops.
The priest gives his usual speech.
The Lord taketh away,
he drolly intones.
Presumably, he giveth elsewhere.
More caw caw caw.
In a cemetery, every bird’s a critic.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.