Whose grave this is I'm well aware:
I don't suppose that he will care
Of melancholic muddiness
Which pauses here for one last stare.

My grimy car must wonder why
I've parked it in the lake nearby,
Full up with soggy manuscripts,
Then left to have a graveyard cry.

It burbles gently as it sinks
And maybe, as it does, it thinks
Of all our journies into night
And how we knew to talk in winks.

The graveyard's lonely, quiet and dim,
Ideally placed for one last whim.
I hope, after the shovelling,
He'll not mind someone joining him.