Redraft: Lych Woman

Lych Woman

They hoist old grandad Clegg
across the stiles and down
the track feet first, their arms
a sheen of moonlight joined
around his final box.

Eyes closed, she sees parades
not yet come along the road,
each witnessing a source
of strength. The bench beneath
the churchyard gate is damp
against her legs, now numb
from sitting still as a ghost.

Old Clegg was good for the gossip
shared over steepened tea -
she'll miss his smutty wisdom
when he pops his clogs, she thinks.

There's more to view: A coffin
tops the hill, so small
a man can lug it alone.
Her John was four when Jesus
called him back home one day,
an autumn drowning. Thumbs
of fog massage her shoulders,
ease her sticking joints.

The last to pass is fuzzy -
just a shape of muddy light
above the path. A voice
long buried hints in her ear:
'... a crate for her who waits.'