On a rough settle

Outside an inn

I sit in the shade

And watch the gathering

 

Bent men

Stately

Aged by labour

Uncomfortable

In hand-me-down

Black suits and hats

And polished shoes

Sedately form a line

 

No one speaks

Coughing

Mingled with birdsong

Fills the village square

With broken crockery

Melody

 

Silence falls

No drummer

No piper

No bugler

Present to pierce the still

 

Crackety yet graceful

A circle forms

Nodding, dipping, dancing

Windmilling arms

And walking sticks

 

No dervish troupe

Ever turned

So slow

For

So long

 

The circle peels open

A deliberate

Curling

Uncurling

Curling and

Uncurling again

Tortoise train

Snakes a dusty lane

Then vanishes

Swallowed in the twilight

Of trees.

 

I settle

In the shade

And drain another glass

 

Black stick figures

Crest the hill brow

Slow dancing

Still

In the remains of the sun

Their leaden old man

Sarabande

 

The breeze catches

Snatches of keening

But no sensible words

Reach me

 

And when I ask,

 

“Why this procession?

A celebration?

A lamentation?”

 

The answer,

 

“There is no reason -

 It is what is done.”

 

And I nod

 

The waiter

brings another drink.