There can only be one poem this Sunday. Last Thursday we buried 50-year-old
Little Joe, who had a dreadful life but was always so cheerful, and the week
before we burnt my 78-year-old best friend Charles. Both had heart attacks.
Charles always complained about this poem cos he actually said 'Bloody
horrible' in his strong Somerset accent but my ear dictated that I censored
him when I wrote it down. I think now I might have been wrong.
Coffin
`Yes', the undertaker says, `I don't need a tape';
`I can measure them standing up or lying down'.
He looks me in the eye then reels off a set of figures.
I am bemused
Nobody dresses better than the undertaker.
I had just told Charles I preferred a country churchyard.
`Gray's Elegy', he said,
`I've dug up dead cats,
`The worms! Horrible.
`They're going to burn me'.
Andy, the little Welshman with the pretty wife,
Died yesterday. Daft on rugby and golf.
And Dave found his father Brian dead this morning.
The wake has continued all day. Practising.
We are a shrinking band.
One day we won't be here anymore.
There will be an empty space, silence.
That is why I put myself into my poems,
I want to survive.
Death wasn't made for me.
Douglas Clark, Bath, Somerset, England ....
http://www.dgdclynx.plus.com
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