He dug he a shallow grave

New poetry is coming hard lately. Below is the beginning of a story I am tinkering with. Let me know what you think.

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He dug her a shallow grave. When the shovel started slipping in his hands he stopped, no reason not to. He figured half of everything we do is courtesy, anyhow, and courtesy had sealed itself off inside his bones a while back.

He rested on the shovel, palming the crown of the staff with his right hand while the other slid until friction stopped it. If he looked at the mound of unpacked earth to the left it kept the sweat out of his eyes. He breathed into a damp sleeve and the cooled smell of salt and soil felt intimate, safe; he drew his shirt between his teeth. Off to the west, in the direction of the coffin, there was an oak tree and beyond the tree a hill and beyond the hill the sun was setting. A cloud bloomed out of the darkening eastern sky and flowered in pink and shadowed petals that fell upon the crest of the hill. But it was the thought of the encroaching darkness and not the blossoming sky that turned his face to the west, to the coffin.

Might as well, he said, and dropped the shovel behind him. Bending slowly towards the casket the thought entered his mind that he should not be the one doing this. He had insisted, he reminded himself. I need to, were his exact words to the deacons. They had nodded and almost said something about forgiveness but didn’t. He edged one corner closer to the grave and fantasized that someone was watching him flex and strain and glare. The face of his father appeared on the imaginary spectator, nodding at this act of grace. Yes, he would have done this.