The Burial

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Paul Verlaine, “l’Enterrement,” c. 1865

Boy, there’s nothing quite like a burial
      for a jolly good time —
the little ditty which
     the dull gravedigger
whistles beneath his breath,
the way his pick-axe shines —
the way the trilling distant bell
     cuts through the air —
the hastily-mumbled prayer
from the dainty young priest
in his bone-white surplice.

The choirboy’s flute-like treble
has not a hint of girlish grief,
     a pure flute ascending,
and when, so soft and snug,
     the coffin slides down
into its perfectly-leveled hole,
and clods of earth are hurled
     with finality, to conceal
by bits the polished wood,
     the burnished brass,
with sod as soft as eiderdown,

why then, the whole affair charms me,
as we, for that lucky devil’s sake
dress up in that somber garb we keep
at the closet’s rear, against the day,
and the undertakers,
     who, never out of work,
plump out their jackets’ seams,
red-nosed in any weather
     from port and sherry.

In the final act,
     we stamp impatiently,
left foot, right foot, and left again,
the spun-out eulogies, clipped short
with sobs or sighs, or spun to spider
web ephemerality by distant relatives.

Nearest the grave, the spectacle
I most enjoy, is worthy of art:
hearts swollen to burst, brows topped
with self-important foreheads, tears dabbed
with significant handkerchiefs,
oh, look at them: the heirs!