Funeral in February

The demise of a curmudgeon

Photo by Karl Hedin on Unsplash

Old Seymour died in winter

With the ground as hard as hobs

And the men who dig and inter

Cursed their wretched jobs

Two such in heavy workboots

Lay down their spade and spit

Soles were scraped on tree roots

And cigarettes were lit

Toward this smoking session

Under heavy, leaden skies

There came the grim procession

All heads bowed, some dabbing eyes

To the tune of coughs and sneezing

They marched slowly to the grave

A young boy said I’m freezing

And his mother said behave!

Among the yews and gravestones

They gathered in the mist

And, as the priest blessed Seymour’s bones,

The mourners reminisced

Thoughts turned towards his illness

Bravely borne without a word

Then in the eerie stillness

A single voice was heard