Here they come a’squeaking, in their shiny Sunday shoes,
press-ganged pinstripe suits and old school ties.
Sad-eyed and near sightless, they cast myopic views,
as their grey heads bow and spot unbuttoned flies .
How they grumble genuflecting, manus clamped to worn oak rails;
how they moan as knees are bent and backs are cricked.
Replete with Christian spirit and all that that entails,
they are gathered here to have their conscience pricked.
In the vaulted depths, fat candles dimly flicker in the gloom.
Organ music seeks a compromise;
faltering and squawking, like a pheasant meeting doom,
when it's shot to death but does not realise.
Hear them shuffle as they stand, hymn sheets shaking in their hands;
spectacles are lost, some fall to floor.
Draught sets them all a’hacking, but the good Lord understands
that when colons jolt, they need an open door.
On the ocean of pink islands, moves a shadow in the light;
through the doorway here at last, comes he.
Bearers of the coffin struggle round the font and fight
to establish rights of passage in this sea.
No one hears the organ play, all look stoically away;
one or two glance back but drop their eyes.
Held shaking high, then low, the coffin starts to sway,
as the hand of God attempts to stabilise.
There is gravity around us and the dead are not immune.
The force that draws us down into the pit
cannot be resisted, though believers may impugn,
but once you’re gone then there’s an end to it.
It seems it was the man in front, who stopped to wipe his eyes,
as pain or passion caught him unawares.
The casket veered to left then right, then took a final dive
with the sound of logs a’falling down the stairs.
See them smile, see them snigger (though to laugh out loud, none dared);
with hands on mouths and eyebrows heaven raised.
Turning like the Trouping of the Colours, mourners stared,
‘til the organist decided, Lord be Praised,
that this would be her destiny, so unknown stops she pulled,
and loosed a mighty wailing, roaring din.
Such was the Vox Humana that the Forte all but culled
those that still could hear unaided…until then.
Those skilled in DIY re-assembled splintered ply
whilst professional grievers called it a disgrace.
A claim against The Maker was considered worth a try
as the lifetime warranty was still in place.
By good luck and by providence the cadaver stayed in wraps
and arguably was none the worse for wear;
but with bits of unknown body parts sticking through the gaps
to continue would have been too hard to bear.
He was buried without incident, an ignominious end,
in a casket held together with much love.
Nothing much was said, as he was laid in his last bed,
by the mourners grimly peering from above.
The shoes they wore still squeaked as they drifted off to pray,
with their pin-stripes creased but ties no longer worn;
In memory of the day that their pal had passed away
they had tied them round his coffin, every one.
Tectak
2012
press-ganged pinstripe suits and old school ties.
Sad-eyed and near sightless, they cast myopic views,
as their grey heads bow and spot unbuttoned flies .
How they grumble genuflecting, manus clamped to worn oak rails;
how they moan as knees are bent and backs are cricked.
Replete with Christian spirit and all that that entails,
they are gathered here to have their conscience pricked.
In the vaulted depths, fat candles dimly flicker in the gloom.
Organ music seeks a compromise;
faltering and squawking, like a pheasant meeting doom,
when it's shot to death but does not realise.
Hear them shuffle as they stand, hymn sheets shaking in their hands;
spectacles are lost, some fall to floor.
Draught sets them all a’hacking, but the good Lord understands
that when colons jolt, they need an open door.
On the ocean of pink islands, moves a shadow in the light;
through the doorway here at last, comes he.
Bearers of the coffin struggle round the font and fight
to establish rights of passage in this sea.
No one hears the organ play, all look stoically away;
one or two glance back but drop their eyes.
Held shaking high, then low, the coffin starts to sway,
as the hand of God attempts to stabilise.
There is gravity around us and the dead are not immune.
The force that draws us down into the pit
cannot be resisted, though believers may impugn,
but once you’re gone then there’s an end to it.
It seems it was the man in front, who stopped to wipe his eyes,
as pain or passion caught him unawares.
The casket veered to left then right, then took a final dive
with the sound of logs a’falling down the stairs.
See them smile, see them snigger (though to laugh out loud, none dared);
with hands on mouths and eyebrows heaven raised.
Turning like the Trouping of the Colours, mourners stared,
‘til the organist decided, Lord be Praised,
that this would be her destiny, so unknown stops she pulled,
and loosed a mighty wailing, roaring din.
Such was the Vox Humana that the Forte all but culled
those that still could hear unaided…until then.
Those skilled in DIY re-assembled splintered ply
whilst professional grievers called it a disgrace.
A claim against The Maker was considered worth a try
as the lifetime warranty was still in place.
By good luck and by providence the cadaver stayed in wraps
and arguably was none the worse for wear;
but with bits of unknown body parts sticking through the gaps
to continue would have been too hard to bear.
He was buried without incident, an ignominious end,
in a casket held together with much love.
Nothing much was said, as he was laid in his last bed,
by the mourners grimly peering from above.
The shoes they wore still squeaked as they drifted off to pray,
with their pin-stripes creased but ties no longer worn;
In memory of the day that their pal had passed away
they had tied them round his coffin, every one.
Tectak
2012