Obit
in memoriam Basil Bunting, 1900-1985
At this beat-up plywood slab across the beat-up
chest of maple drawers, each day I am writing
my own epitaph since I’m past my sell-by date,
and today I remember Basil telling me as we sat
overlooking the Tyne valley at Wylam how
in the Sudan they put down men at seventy
and eat their women as soon as they become
grandmothers.Too late. Too bad. I’ll have to be
my own sarcophagus though maybe I could move
to Tibet where he said they chop you up and
leave you on a mountain top for vultures, “sky burial”,
but as we sat sipping the Red Label I slipped
past Sima, watching a train worm its way from
one side of England to the other, a seagull
flew over and shat on his shoulder. “That’s
good luck,” he said as he wiped it off with
a tuft of grass and tossed it down the hill.
