Each street in the village is criss-crossed by twists of coloured
  crepe.
My footsteps raise hard puffs of yellow dust as I walk
down to the churchyard. It is a festival day.
The image will be taken from its shallow station
to my house on the further hill.

The church is an empty room divided by a curtain
and one step down. To either side of her
are the sombre icons - St Michael and St George.
At her feet, a set of cleaning utensils.
All the time I remember she was covering
and uncovering something she held in her hand,
something poor and mundane and now never mentioned.

The sun casts a eat's cradle on the white stone wall.
...