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Walking to the bone yard
From Watchet town to the parish church of St Decuman's
there is an old footpath, now overgrown, known as the "coffin road".
Today I walked the coffin road
through the town
over the hill
down mosquito paths
where unhurdled stink-black mud
waits to cloy boot and shoe.
The coffin rest, unused and bramble-hid,
stands ready still to ease the burden
while bearers gather strength,
curse the stout and bless the lean.
Straggling mourners assembled here
for the climb toward the church.
Crumble-walled at the end of the path
the coffin yard waits, cobble-stoned,
clasping the wild wind whistle tight
against lichened stone to batter the door
and rattle window guards against their frames.
A lonely wind song is the only choir.
Somerset 1998
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