North London.
53,000 graves.
A nature reserve,
where I finally met my London fox.
Not quiet, like I expected in an old cemetery.
Noisy, from workers tossing branches
into a wood chipper.
The deafening sound of a chainsaw.
Still, it was quiet by the time
I found the writers,
George Eliot,
Douglas Adams,
both graves adorned with gifted pens.
I count a half dozen references
to the number 42 at Adams’s grave.
Silent blessings for both.
The most famous grave of the cemetery
belongs to Karl Marx.
He has both an original gravestone
and a monument,
on which is written
Workers of All Lands Unite.
And finally, there was my fox,
lazing about the headstones,
unperturbed by the passersby
on their contemplative strolls.
