The Funeral Poem by Dan Brown

Hushed phone calls litter the day, and
Arouse my curiosity. Mum looks tired.
Dad looks sad.
I don’t understand.
I’m told we’re going down South.
To see Grandad.
The journey is cold and static,
Everyone keeps sighing.
I feel left out and don’t know what to say.
We arrive in the dead of night, and
I have to go to bed.
As I climb the stairs I see my uncles
all shaking hands and patting each other
on the back. My Dad goes to join them.
They all look sad,
and I’m left confused.
As I lay on my Aunt and Uncle’s
creaking spare bed, covered only by
An itchy blanket and my cold, clammy t-shirt,
I strain to hear the hushed murmurs
that escape from downstairs. I fall
asleep with echoes of “…. nice we think he’d
appreciate, ” ringing in my ears,
not knowing quite what it could mean.
The next morning, I’m woken up early, and dressed
in my Sunday best.
Everyone still looks sad.
So I try and be sad, too.
An Uncle comes in through my breakfast,
and announces the cars are here.
Everyone looks at their feet,
and talks in mumbles.
I’ve no idea what he meant, but I looked at my feet too.
I follow my parents out to a big, black car in the street,
and feel disappointed that this doesn’t seem an appropriate time
to be excited about riding in a really long car.
We travel in complete silence, no-one says a thing.
They all just keep looking sad.
We stopped at the place where they buried people,
and made a long line behind a wooden box
on six men’s shoulders. My Dad was one of them.
He looked so sad, sombre and solemn. Yet proud as well.
That confused me.
We started walking and an Aunt began to cry.
I’d never seen an adult cry before.
I thought they were strong and invincible,
Like the Power Rangers.
More people started crying and it upset me too.
Something bad must have happened.
We gathered round the grave, compressed together like a fortress
trying to stop bad things from getting inside.
After the priest had read a few words,
the silence sang out. It sang so loud
that it made more people cry.
Nothingness boomed round the churchyard,
bouncing and echoing off the headstones,
louder and more conspicuous than any rock music.
I was lost; bewildered.
In my dazed upset, I tugged on Mummy’s sleeve,
and asked her where Grandad was, we were supposed
to be here to see Grandad.
She knelt to me, trying not to cry,
and told me “Grandad is in Heaven now, we’re here
to say goodbye.”
I said goodbye to my Grandad,
but not at his graveside, surrounded by soil and tears.
I couldn’t bear to look into that hole to see
it reflect the hollowness in my heart and mind, and
the emptiness left in all our lives.
I would honour his memory my own way.
I’d remember the happiness he brought.
I’d remember him as I saw him last,
and say goodbye in thought