Death in the room,
all glossy and brass handled,
perched mutely in the corner,
sees nothing of what has been organised
around him. His cool varnished face
deflects eyes straying there
or braving his long, carved lines.
Invoking no god, they celebrate a life
of tireless exploits, of qualityfulness.
Images of open-toothed smiles and cheeky grins play;
his pre-war sepia self dances on imaginations,
blends with tales of his non-judgmental recent ways.
A hall full of appreciation and restraint.
Shuffles, while a sound system hiccough is righted.
My canary, eventually, has circles under his eyes.
Suddenly, he's in full glare, half hoisted
hip high, gliding into the bright afternoon.
Shoes shift-slide on gravel; yellow roses
land on his shiny self. Now he's ready,
wreaking sunny tears from the living.
Bill Wootton
