Burial Service

The old mare
Twenty seven years old
Died: we buried her where
The brown turf-mould
Free from stones
Presses little
On her sapless bones - 
Bones glass brittle.

We marked the spot
With a smashed spade-shaft.
It was not 
Evening. We laughed
At a cruel tale
A peasant told
Of a woman crushed and pale
And not old.