I don't want to rot in the cold damp clay
and wait for the maggots to find me;
I don't want the sterile glory
of burning up in an oven;
I don't want a headstone, a shroud,
a plastic urn or a coffin;
I don't want your vile yellow flowers
or a minister mumbling lies -
I want to be more useful dead
than ever I was alive.
So when I die, just strip my corpse
and take me out while I'm warm -
out to the fields and leave me there
next to a tree where crows are nesting.
You needn't bother to cut me up
if you feel all that fastidious -
I know I can count on the crows
to give me a tidy ending.
You can call me sentimental
but I wish them joy of their meal -
I always loved them best
for their grace and their raucous humour.
They'll pick me down to the bone
and my soul, if I have one, will fly -
will skim through the clouds on crow-back
and play in the currents of air
while my gobbets of flesh will be snug
in a dozen black-feathered bellies.
You can gather my bones, if it makes you feel better,
bury or burn them, whatever you like:
it will make no difference to me.
Margot K. Juby