Suited Man Poem by David Gibbs

There's a winding path leads to the door,
That I have never trod before,
On my right an oak stands tall,
The other side is laid to lawn.

The door of teak is dressed with brass,
With four small squares of mottled glass,
Walls of flint, aged, smooth and worn,
The roof is thatched, the colour of corn.

Before I knock, I turn and gaze,
At flowerbeds and trees ablaze,
In shimmering light from midday sun,
Colours are many, a true Eden.

I tap the door and it swings wide,
A suited man shows me inside,
To a place where I may wait,
I take a seat and contemplate.

The cicumstance that came to be,
That caused this man to meet with me,
For him it's business everyday,
For me a time of disarray.

The suited man returns again,
And to the task we both shall tend,
To choose the coffin and the cars,
Choice of graveyard and epitaph.

When at last the job is done,
I walk again into the sun,
I bid farewell to the suited man,
I hope it's a while before I meet him again.