When I die feed me to the worms

[Keith]

Had an artist captured it the sky would look false.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar.
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame to his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket.

Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.