I wanted to write about
the dimming light,
how our bones shift and sigh,
restless for warmth;
the way leaves yearn,
open their pores,
then open them more;

about bones lying like leeks
in green shrouds, gasping,
and the sun weighed down
by a pile of overcoats
thrown in a stack
at the back of the hill;

about the polyanthus and cowslip
that flowered in November
outside my back door,
how lonely they looked,
wrongly dressed for the season,
attracting the slimy kisses of slugs;

about blood running grey
and mould webbing human feet;
about how we bury bodies,
how down to earth it is.

Until I discovered the origins of our word
for putting someone in the ground
and that a string of US undertakers
had found the word as well
and liked it
and used it as their trade name
and that made me smile.