Bathurst, New South Wales
The grave that waits for me is warm and dark and snug,
a fold of earth where rest and peace do manifest,
quilted with the fronds of burrawang and fern
next to where my Darkie lies.
They’ll lay me six feet down without a box and plant a tree above my head,
and when those roots like fingers come to live within me,
I’ll ride the sap unto the tops
to be dispersed upon the breeze by restless leaves,
and ’crobes and worms and such will spread me ’round beneath the ground,
a little bay, whence depart disbursements of myself.
When folks are gone that way a fence no longer is a thing of meaning,
and roads upon a map no more than squiggly lines.
Ownership of lands and stuff becomes anathema,
and governments and laws, nations and their wars,
no more than kids at play.
Bio: Graham tells us he was having a mournful reverie recently and this verse popped into his head.