A Funeral Poem by john coldwell

We passed by the silent sliding curtain,
That closed the final act upon her life.
Through the florist’s dank smell of the courtyard,
And passed wilting flowers in rusty vases,
Into the bright, insensitive, sunlight.

Amongst the black and gleaming cortège cars,
In dark suits and modest hats,
We spoke soft words of present grief,
And some with hugs of comfort,
Said their slow, and sad, farewells.

She was of our generation,
Unassuming soul- wife and mother,
Extravagant of her to go before us,
Or so the shock has made it seem,
As we envy her, her dignity in death.

I had a vision on that day,
When reality briefly lost it’s grip,
I saw the gathered congregation,
In rigid transparent silhouette,
Their gaze affixed upon her fresh flowered casket.

I was given then the eyes of God,
And saw each gathered mortal soul,
As wilting flowers in rusty vases,
Amongst the courtyard’s sweet dank florist’s smell
And all affronted by her freshness in her death.