It’s a time for feeling quiet. Maybe it’s just unsettling going to funerals and thinking of an “in memoriam” space for Costas’ paintings at the next exhibition. Everybody feeling sad and relieved it’s not them. This was a burial in over-bright sunshine, the cortege approaching down a very yellow path across very green grass under a too-blue sky as if we were all in a film. I remembered bits of a poem I wrote a long time ago. “Churchyards are such still places, / As if everyone buried in them / Had managed to book a peaceful death, / Brief and simple like each epitaph.” Ok, a bit sub-Plath. And it was a cemetery, not a churchyard. I like the silence in the house today, the solitude, the only song I listened to. Music today would be too loud.
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