Where does life lead but a hole in the ground,
Where a sand-silt mound or a concrete tomb
Give just the right amount of room, to sqeeze
A wooden box inside, where lay a bride,
A bridegroom, or a child, someone's mother,
Uncle Clive, a colleague or a friend who
Died, now dried and packed with lillies and silk,
Dropped into the earth to rot and decay
Leaving only the memory of a voice,
And the sadness of a funeral day.
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Jane Sharp has lived in Vrahassi, a mountain village in Crete, for the past sixteen years. She has been writing poetry for a lot longer. Her poems have been published in magazines, read on the B.B.C. and have won prizes.
