DISTURBING THE DEAD

We'd buy the hot pies
Vanilla slices 
Barmcakes
Sealed in paper bags with a twist of the wrist
By the young girl in the pie shop/cafe
And then 
We’d sit 
And eat 
In this churchyard 
On benches inscribed with rusting bronze plaques
One called Walts bench has the following on it
Tony waller 230963 14042015
Together forever, in brackets
A similar age to myself 

Virtually every bench speaks
Tells a tale in brevity
Of a life lived
Remembrances dotted in between monstrously large funeral slabs
So that there's almost nowhere to walk
For fear of disturbing the dead
But we could sit 
And eat
And we did

The busy shops and market just a few steps away
Relentlessly invaded by
Hungry tourists
In turn hounded themselves by hungrier gulls
The commotion never hit our ears
The solemnity of the location
The taste of hot filled pastry
 keeping us content
In this noiseless place

Except for whispering trees and a couple of palms planted near the church doors 
flapping awkwardly like wounded birds in the brisk December breeze 
A mother chides her daughter saying “don't run, don't run! “
She doesn't see why not
Life carries on
People  walk past hurriedly 
I see us three in the past
Happy
In our own way 

Once I deceived me Dad into us attending the church's strawberry cream tea garden party held on the vicars lawn
He was like a fish out of water
People were milling around Rev Hodges like flies round shit
Offering us scones and tea
All laughing 
All talking too enthusiastically about nothing worth enthusing over 
Me Mum kept her head down while me Dad made excuses
And we escaped

Unsurprisingly 
I was forever blamed
For the doomed afternoon
Then I remember this is the time of year Mum died
And I see my Dad
The pain still in his eyes
As he sits surrounded by memories 

In his bungalow an ancient buckled biscuit tin spews forth
A damaged old pile of photos
Onto the fifty years old coffee table 
Many settling on his lap
He can no longer hear
The vinyl albums are gathering dust
Xmas presents given to him
Once gratefully received
Are still wrapped
In a corner of his wardrobe

He can no longer drive to the cemetery
To leave flowers
To weep 
His thumb lightly holds the creased reflection of her Image as though it was spun gold.