They set a cracking pace, chattering as they scurried, throwing hurry-ups over their shoulder to ensure none was tardy. Checking that I, the intruder, didn't miss my step over the gutter, I snatched a glimpse as they ducked around the back of the crematorium. Luckily, I caught the hem of the black sheep as he stepped in behind the Eastern Wall. An unexpected vista opened before me.
Could they have internalised Robert Frost's 'Mending Wall'? In this small section, maybe half a dozen rows, there they were, laid cheek-by-jowl, peas-in-a-pod, not an inch between them. One big, happy family with bountiful tending and respect. I heard the tumbling gush of ancient-tongue, the bustle as bouquets unfurled, and water fetched. The tsk-ing and the tut-ing as the week's embarrassments were confided.
I moved on, with a spring and a smile. Not only Frost, but Dylan Thomas as well:
|Though lovers be lost, love shall not;|
And death shall have no dominion.