Boxing days.

Boxing days.

I used to go years between funerals;
but now,
everyone I know
seems to be popping their clogs,
taking the train to Croak city,
kissing their asses goodbye:
Cashing in their chips;
or so we speak who survive,
in efforts to find darker
and brighter ways
to say.
They die.

There is some funerary variety.
Some are soulful,
sobbing affairs.
Desolate disconsolate people
who can’t be comforted:
Un … comfortable.
Crucified by their cares.

The celt throwbacks
dredge up druidic rites
in christian guise,
seeking to celebrate the old belief
that death is a beginning,
whilst birth is an end
to the reverie of Sidhe.
A whitewashing of grief.
Some wakes are booze ups
that end in punch ups.
As former foes and forgotten enemies
gather by the bier and meet.
And sleeping old resentments,
suddenly get to their feet.

Some are massive. Full to bursting churches.
Everyone asking, Who is he? Who is she?
Who are they?
How did Jim know
that man there?
He looks as if he’s gay!

And some are very small.
Hardly anyone there at all.
The clergy person,
a woman in a felt hat from Glebe Street
who comes into the church,
every time it’s doors open.
The hired pallbearers, gratuitously
grim, with gloomy faces.
A neighbour of the deceased who says,
‘I didn’t really know her well,
but I thought I ought to come.
Just the same.’
And the lady in the chintz overall,
who changes the flowers
in the vases.