I walked through the graveyard on my way home this morning. A man was there tending to a grave. He was too spruce for the work. I saw his shiny white Mercedes parked up near the entrance. He had a plastic pot in his hand and was patting, no stamping down the grass around the plot with the soles of his shoes. He looked cross, irritated. The stone was black with gold lettering. He was too far away for me to read the inscription. Was it an act of love or mere duty?
The blackberries are riper along the path to the avenue. I should bring a small bag next time.
