Winter solstice
crisp air stung as darkness fell
lantern lit hung on burial spade
its job to dig
the pit
coffin raw in state bore no brass or copper handles
… rough sawn timber to conceal the dead
family mourned
waited for the driver dressed in black
with his horse to cart their dead away
…he the suffering witness to tears in grief
women on bended knees scream out
her name
– 1848 –
the sickness hit …bodies fell
prevent the germs from spreading
pulse weak hot bread on soles of feet
reaction none ….pronounced dead
burial must be quick
white and drained of colour
lain not on satin but threadbare cloth
they lifted her…. to hearse
gathered to walk the streets
listen to the iron wheels the sounds of hooves
her whispers could not be heard amongst their wails
I did not die I am alive
……she cried beside them
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150 words or less of Fiction For Angela Geoff and
Ramblings From A Mum 