‘Churchyard’ by Sue Hubbard


Maybe this wind knows

something we don’t, daddy;

a secret it hugs close

and won’t share

as it blows across

the village churchyard

and the vicar firms the edge

of the freshly dug hole

with her wellington boot,

opens the labelled canister

and tips you in.

It’s the plastic Evian bottle

that throws me, with which

she rinses the caddy,

swirling round the water

to make sure she has every

last speck, every particle

of ash that once was you.




(previously unpublished)



Sue Hubbard is a novelist, freelance art-critic and award-winning poet. The Poetry Society’s only official Public Art Poet she was commissioned to create London’s largest public art poem at Waterloo. She has twice been a Hawthornden fellow and published three collections: Everything Begins with the Skin (Enitharmon 1994), Ghost Station (Salt 2004) and The Forgetting and Remembering of Air (Salt 2013). Recently she was invited to record her poems for the National Poetry Sound Archive.