The Next Group Waiting

Last night I laid out my black clothes,
a uniform for mourning
for a morning come too soon.
Music, strange and loud,
accompanies your coffin,
as it’s borne forward.

We shuffle in,
fifteen, maybe twenty,
daughters, friends and comrades.
Too early a start for you,
I joke aside,
you’d have been late for your own funeral!

Speeches follow,
trying to capture,
the essence of a character,
too large for this commonplace room.
Drawing a circle,
round the drinking that killed you.

We lower our heads,
in shared, quiet contemplation,
before the pipes of Young Willie McBride,
rise up to carry you through.
In turn condolences are offered,
hugs proffered, tears fall.

All over in half an hour.
The doors swing open to the conservatory
where flower wreaths lay.
There they stand,
shoulders hunched,
against the early morning drizzle,
the next group waiting.