The Funeral

Funeral coats heavy and low,

trousers riding spit-polish brown,

knuckles whitening on the handles;

old and young, surprised at the weight.

They always are, the bearers of the dead.

It was hardly a funeral at all: a hymn

to which no one knew the words, strains of notes

in a soul-less hall. No vicar. Not required.

Not today; not since the wedding, long time since.

Then the cars gathered, lights on, far and near

and they lowered him in to stony ground;

dirt rattled on the lid, down beyond the sun.

The widow turned, smart in black.

Well, she said, not a bad day for it –

and she brushed hair from her dry eyes

One Responseso far.

  1. Dean English Dean English says:

    Vivid snap-shot in those last few lines! Spot-on.

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