He had mended the tumbled wall in the graveyard,
put stone back on stone, cut down the brambles,
replaced the wooden gate with bolted iron,
weeded and cut the grass right up close to the beds.
His sleeves had even cleaned the fallen headstones.
Seamus Molloy, closer to God than most, did all
this work. A tall, quiet man, he likes tending the dead.
Yesterday, he was working on the wall as I passed.
I nodded. He did something incompatible with Seamus:
he spoke. "Hear that?" But all I heard was
an emptiness in the trees. "I hear nothing, Seamus."
"That's right, and it is the first time in years
they have no bone to pick with me. Sweet, isn't it, how
quietly the dead sleep when they know they're not forgotten?"