Few details remained. And he’d only just scraped though. There was a sense that he’d been very close to something bad.
Then it was all gone.
Humming walls and the scent of exhausted, dried out lungs. From his hole on his plot, he could feel no love. He would scream but his body would not allow it. He was no longer he. The world turned with him captive in its clutches. The cold broke him down, discoloured his suit, grew his hair and gave him a sad, piercing stare.
Occasionally, muffled voices reached his unresponsive bones. Sometimes even sobs.
Most of the time it was the voices of strangers and crows that filled the air. A Wednesday afternoon in half darkness, the earth shifting from the diggers preparing a new hole. A gang of workmen exchanging a sexist or racist joke. The sky neither day or night. The sound of a vicar moaning words of comfort.
A crow pulls a worm, fat from death, from the ripe soil.