Cloudbathing on the grave of Sam Parnell
(Father of the eight-hour day)

I lure you into my cemetery.
Let's talk with the ghosts, I say.
They need their feed of honey.
I haven't been here all day.

We saw an obelisk roped up
in thick black polythene.
We saw grim council workers
spray numbers on the stones.
I heard my ghosts entreating me
with mocking little groans.

Time runs slow in the cemetery:
a minute can last all day.
You glance around you, half-afraid,
But clouds keep the ghosts at bay.

Let's visit old Sam, I suggest.
Lie warm on his comfortable grave.
"A chair you can't fall off?" you ask.
"Who are you trying to save?

"Who's that hiding behind the tree?
A grey ghost taking a peek?
And what's an elephant going to see:
the start of the eight-hour week?"

Time moves so fast it's a blur.
I blink: another day.
I've hardly known you. Clouds tear past.
Rain could wash us away.

Dennis List