The Line

The Line

The rain pattered tiny feet along the
Back of a black line as it
Wailed and wandered
Towards a door in the Queens.
Its heads were bowed in murmuring prayer
As it shuffled beneath a deadpan sky.

It crept up worn steps onto a neutral porch
Before entering the stolen warmth,
Inside, where it rained harder
Amongst the lilies and stars of
David’s vacant twin.

Within, the line frayed suddenly
Shaking through its length on
Shuddering shoulders.
Only the grim robust placed
Condolences before the porcelain child;
Her hair as black as the living.

When we gathered again,
Tied in knots, the rain
Two had ceased their play, and we
Watched David watching the white chest
Drift and settle below the turf.

Family by family, wee boys, left
Childhood behind in growing handfuls of dirt
As the line scattered against the stones.