Procession

There is so much out there that does not chime.
We only hear the muffled, muted bells
as the procession passes down the street.
A stately slowness through the stillness holds,
the ominous and formal motion stopped.

We dream of distant lands of no return
of death and deathly solemn rituals
as fingers touch unliving eyelids closed
and so the world is ended once again.

Amongst the leafless trees and silent birds,
we stand and watch the empty casket fill
the vacant hole, and then be buried, there,
in hearts as deep as unforgiving earth.