UNDEAD

No catafalque for me
Or fallen lintel bier to lie upon;
No beam of light available
To carry evidence of my prostration,
Or sight of grievers passing.

No pious land unbroken by a
Paddle’s dig or fire bothered
With a swaddled corpse;
The sea and air untroubled
By such mess as me.

The page still white
Awaiting any scrape of word
About my life’s essays,
And screen as blank as
Any programme crashed.

Town criers quiet,
Newspapers saved,
No obituary writers sighted,
As I appear to still be
Here, my dieing uninvited.