A Wanderer's Funeral

I come at last to a wanderer's grave,
My sexton is the vulture's jaw;
In open field or cloistered cave,
He'll bury me by the wanderer's law.

The buzzing flies will make up my shroud,
As the wind howls my death lament.
They chant my rites clear and loud
While I convulse through my last torment.

The wanderer at last shall come to stay,
In the maggot's fattening zest.
As my tissues ferment away,
May I think I've found eternal rest?

But for peace I shall pray in vain,
For my bones roll on upon the plain.

a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g

(Published in GloMag, December 2015 p72)