GRIEF by Annabelle Stevens

He parted his lips with his tongue and sucked in a droplet of water, tasting salt. For the first time he realised that he had been crying. His tears had mingled with the ice-chill rain which trickled down his face. It dripped off his black hair and from the umbrellas of the onlookers standing between the gravestones.

Old men, their faces chiselled by time, slowly shook their heads.

Large middle-age women clasped their gloved hands beneath their bosoms, and heaved hugh sighs.

Father's hands gripped their sons' shoulders convulsively, either as a symbol of support or as a token restraint, trying to keep their children close at a time of loss.

As the coffin was lowered on its purple ribbons to its new home in the ancient soil, he noticed the carvings on the side: Jesus preaching in a boat, and St. Christopher carrying a young boy across a stream.

He felt that the water motif was appropriate for such a day. It seemed as if the whole sky wept for the loss of another soul. Perhaps the earth was trying to wash itself clean of sorrow, or blame.

Two large black rooks peered down upon the scene from their vantage point high in a yew. With their hunched shoulders, jet black long-feathered coats, and large beaks, they seemd to mimic the two undertakers who stood motionless behind the family.

Flying off, the rooks cackled with pleasure at the effectiveness of their impersonations.

In a penetrating nasal tone the priest gave his cliché-ridden chapter and verse.

Replies were mumbled, and the large women blessed themselves at every opportunity. Perhaps they all heard the clock ticking.

The close relatives all lined up to toss the first handfuls of soil onto the coffin.

Few had lent him a hand during his life, he reflected grimly, but few had missed the opportunity to lend a hand at the old man's burial.

And one day, he would be there too, warm and snug in a pine box as the heavens wept.

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