Grave Sweeping
Every Ching Ming, April showers weep
misty tears across the land, seeping
into gaps of loss. Gifts of paper energise
the spirits (a suit, a watch, a house) as warping
flames consume ingots, paper-gold flecks on the verge
of a hot red tin: the borderline where we grieve
the years gone. The pastel rain
renders a little forgetting, as ageing
aunts sweep the tomb. A son garlic-gingers
the open-hearth wok, while prawns
are blanched – carpe diem – and they’re done. Near
the firecracker flowers, a rusty wok reclaimed by Spring
is filled with earth, a reincarnated vessel. A sprig
of leaf ventures sunforth as the fire wanes.
Some distant uncle fixes the roof, removing vines
and tells a story with tools and junk, weaving
shelter with refashioned verse.
Through sepia glass, the long-gone parents agree
all is as it should be.