night is cold and wild with wind
whip and sting are hard with ice.
The graveyard trees moan a mournful dirge,
The hollow anthem of the dead
With a treble piped
the feather-flustered owl.
stark marble gravestones lie
Pinning down the frostgreyed field.
Heavy chips of vitreous bone, petrified ice.
the people underneath
What would satisfy them?
they would say
But no-one whose headstone simply says
Has opened up the coffin lid to say
That Heaven is better than Lancashire
Or Hell is any worse....