The Funeral Of The Man At The Barbecue Poem by Taylor J.S Reynolds

Down the sombre aisle
Walks the young boy,
A spectre of innocence
Carrying a bunch of lively roses itching

To escape their bouquet and return
To the sacred fields of their families.

He glides towards the wooden box,
an apparition of youth approaching
The fact of his fate.

In the wooden box,
A stale memory resides
Without knowledge of his surroundings.

Crooked fingers clasp cold hands,
The hands with which
He crafted, moulded
And held.

Then,
A loveless kiss on the cheek.

The confused boy gazes at
The empty shell,
His Great Uncle?

He met him once:
At either the cabin or
At a random barbecue,
He'd never kissed him before, though.


People weren't crying there,
The man wasn't cold either.

A woman of stoic expression
Yanked the boy to safety,
The exit wasn't far away
But the walk felt defining.

I remember it now,
(the funeral that is) ,
I was 7 years old.
‘Mum, will I be like that one day? '

At night, I think of
His blurred face,
One that is probably stripped
Now, having been
Eaten by the forgetful bugs
In the merciless ground.

He doesn't leave my mind,
The man who I met once.

It always rains when I want a barbecue now,
The fire perpetually cold,
Nobody wants to come to
The barbecue now.