By Peter Bolton

I feel the cold moist earth
bite into my back
and on my chest soaks rain.
No coffin, just this sack.

There are no tombstones here
just dirt and rocks.
No lawn just brambles near.
I hear the winds
that blow in the trees.

I silence my scared soul
and try to catch a sound
of any others near.
No-one else calls from the ground.
I am trapped in fear.
No-one else I have found.

I cry a prayer
up to the storms that abound.
A prayer from my soul.
Unblessed soil
Unblessed hole
traps me top this bag
that's wrapped around me.
The years I've watched it sag
as nature works her decay.

I hear the sounds
of a child crying in fear.
To this
I turn an ear
and find it is from me.
If I could scream
I decree
the whole world would hear.
The sleeping will dream
but will they rescue me.

Under the full moon
I wait, hope, pray
that I will
see rescue one day.