BURIAL The shovels stood in a sticky underbelly of earth as we stepped from the sidelines for him, peeling our jackets, the boys loosening their ties. Soon there was clay on our church-going gear and his voice coming out of our childhood coaching us to put our backs into it. Flowers and fine words had never touched the man like work, grunts behind a shovel's bite, the clean sounds of clods as we heaved them in. Digging, we bowed in memory of his stooped solid shape. The dark damp weight of earth, a provision, a very last word. -- Ms. Rhian Gallagher was born in Timaru, NZ, 1961, and lives in London. Of this poem Ms. Gallagher said that her father was a man of few words. He came out from Ireland in his 20s and worked on building the hydro-dams down south, did other hard manual labor. Per Gallagher - "The physical act of burying him was my brothers' and my eulogy to him. Poem came from real events. In Ireland it is often men of the family who do the burial, so my joining in pushed a little at the traditional male-only role."