My Commital

White autumn mist hangs gently
 in the valley as I walk
 down the steep hill
 a philip’s screwdriver
 in my inside pocket
 to open the casket.
 I wish to recall every detail.
 
 Carry Nana’s ashes in a pine casket,
 secured by six philip screws
 with four thin white strings attached,
 held on by six gold pins
 and this in a brown cardboard box
 that has her name printed in black felt tip
 on one of its leaves,
 
 and this in a strong red paper
 carrier with two gold rope like handles,
 and I am surprised how heavy
 it is in my hands and have to bend
 my knees to pick it up. It squeaks
 like new shoes when I walk.
 
 Careful not to lose
 the certificate of cremation,
 I stand at the bus stop
 opposite the half completed
 
 new estate of houses built
 on land I knew last year
 as a cornfield where discarded 
 energy cans and crisp bags
 lined the edge.
 
 I walk up the hill
 to the church to meet the vicar
 dressed in white with gold detail.
 He asks “ Do you want the casket
 to be lowered in the grave
 by the verger or yourself?”
 I give my answer.
 
 I lay the casket on the Lord’s table
 as requested, the vicar speaks
 of the resurrection and the life,
 quotes revelation about the lamp
 and the world without night.
 
 I follow him and verger
 down the hill of graves
 past bushes full of bright red berries,
 brown mushrooms flourishing
 on rotten soaked wood,
 
 kneel on the green rubber kneeler,
 beside the prepared hole
 under an oak tree in leaf fall
 and lower the casket down
 with the white string,
 
 the gold of her nameplate
 on top of the casket contrasts
 with the dark clayey soil.
 We say the Lord’s prayer.
 
 Verger leaves the earth
 on the grave slightly raised
 so it may settle, agrees
 to green bin my cardboard box
 
 and paper carrier. I shake
 his hand and say “Thankyou.”
 Walk down the hill to the bus.
 No screwdriver was needed.