Awkward sod, chose bleakest day of grotesque dying Winter,
not one single snow drop peered between polished shoes.
A few came out of respect for his wife,
the one he abused all the days of her life.
Some one stole glance at watch, fiddled loose change.
Glance over distant chimney pots towards railway station.
Many liked the neutral tone of the curate,
cross between Catholic flourish and fundamentalist fury.
Laughter heard among bleak trees,
“Boys from council estate, doing as they please.”
Later some one took flowers from the grave,
given less than willing girl to help him get his way.