There were two people by the row of graves, the silent grey stones that stood in sombre lonely lines. The man, late 50’s or early 60’s, had bent down and was shuffling the ground around one a few headstones in, reverent in his silence and at peace with his task. The lady, around the same age, had walked on ahead and a row deeper. She seemed preoccupied by other thoughts. A small yellow car sat clinging to the grass verge, half on and half off the cemetery road.
The sun continued to shine, the wind continued to make the wood of the trees creak, and the clouds continued on their worldly march.
After I had passed this scene I glanced back.
The man had risen, paying his last respect to the stone, to this clutch of earth that was forever his. I could not see the lady.