The burial opened the gates 

and for the length of a room we saw 

 

the walls of time. The dead man lay 

on a table of compacted 

 

minutes and we understood: 

no-one’s days will run out

 

Under ground the moles

were folding the night into 

 

black pages, some into

fitted sheets for the sagging 

 

rear view of the forest floors

But the term stood as a fir tree

 

next to the mortuary and slowly

segued into a birch tree