These pews don’t lend themselves to private grief.
A well of tears leaks down my cold, cold cheeks.
Her family must be wondering who we are.
Strangers treading on their private sorrow.
I’d met up with some colleagues at the rear
Beside the great stone font, we’d peered
Around with nervous small talk covering my dread
I’d inappropriately cry, or laugh instead.
At work we’d laughed and shared a tale or two,
Nothing too deep, nothing so unusual,
Yet sandwiched in between this daily bread
Her wisdom, joy, compassion, love was spread.
The architecture grand, the history long,
The hard stone floor, the organ groaning song.
We waited for her body to arrive,
The funeral cortege to come inside
So, finally they came, shuffling sobbing
Red eyed, pale, broken, strong young men, weeping,
Shouldering her coffin down the narrow aisle,
Their tattooed hands clasped, white knuckled, while
Following. the women flowed in torrents, old,
young, grandmas, aunties, sisters, keeping hold
and holding each other, bound in distress,
Witnessing the strength of death’s caress.
I watched their faces, shocked amazed to see
Reflected spectres of my loss watch me.
Her family features in a glance, a pose
Her living face, inherited, bestowed.
A magnificent display of figurative language used here, from the title to the closing lines, this poem connects with the reader on many levels. A well crafted, tender poem. S :)
There is only on word for this poem full of feeling... Brillant... Colin J...10
a true poem.. full of emotion and thought..wonderful work
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well Done Janet, You explained vividly the many thoughts that goes through mind during this very quite time.