Bury me under a cedar tree
On a rain swept winter’s day
By the steps to the old church
Where the living sing songs
To the bones of the dead
Have the young men carry
My casket and lower it down
But don’t think that I am there
This is only what remains
Artifacts of what used to be
Ask the women to read
A little of my own verse
That I might linger a while
With those whom I loved
A hidden spirit of memory
Toss flowers in my grave
If I could still smell taste
Feel hear and see then I
Would be pleased but
They’re not to comfort me
When all the praying’s done
Stay for a time and mingle
Reconnect for you‘ve not
Seen each other in a while
My diaspora friends and family
Leave me under that cedar tree
On a rain swept winter’s day
By the steps to the old church
Where the living sing songs
To the bones of the dead
•••
Nick Hutchings: Despite my many teachers’ best efforts to prepare me for a job indoors I chose commercial diving. I love to explore and am equally happy doing so in the deep ocean or the intriguing social phycology of my community using aquatic robots for the former and poetry for the latter.
tongues of the ocean 
READING ROOM VI | Wadadli Pen
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