He is the gravedigger, up at dawnlight, whetstone sharpened spade in hand, ready to burrow meter by yard. He has buried a townsworth of folk, and played sheepshead with most. The digging is nothing, it takes off the years. No one alive knows how many. They never walk the cemetery at fullmoon midnight when he does a waltz and turkey trot on loamy earth then plants the English roses and climbing clematis. All the scarlets and wines lighting dark corners and gray granite. They send money by post or lose on purpose betting on the best overlooks. He makes no promises but one.