I wish I had stories to tell, 
Of how, for days out of weeks, 
I took the bus down from Galway 
to the town called Callan, 
the town where your body lies buried. 
Of night long vigils by your grave 
of keeping watch while the earth 
settles solid enough to bear 
the burden of hard granite stone. 

You lie unmarked until then. 

But I am afraid to return 
to the ground that covers the body 
of you whom I love so well. 
Afraid that I'll stand by that 
rough stone wall, with my back 
to the shelter of that obvious Yew, 
afraid of the settling earth 
and the reasoning gravity that forbids 
all the things I should do. 

I cannot accept your death. 

I wish I had stories to tell 
of how I fell on your grave 
dug my hands deep in that 
good settled earth to plough it 
in grooves on my face 
how I cupped its dead richness 
of black humus taste and ate 
my way down to the lid 
of the box 

I do not mourn you well enough.