Tuesday is funeral day.
I sit above
and watch the pews fill
with sober, black overcoats.
They recite dry words
with mouths
already half-full of dirt.
Too many grey heads
nod and bob below,
though one less
than last Sunday.
The old rites
are blowing away
in the February chill
as we sing this soul home.
This is for G-man's FF55. Late, so to speak. Sorry for the dreary topic on Valentin's day, but I sing in a little country church choir and a funeral on Tuesday for a man I don't know at all got me thinking. I'm still thinking, but here's the first bit.
