The Funeral

25 Nov

The Funeral

By L. Stewart Marsden

 

Crows cackle and caw,
perched upon the swaying gray fingers
of nuded elms and hickorys,
boughed arms pleading the dreary sky to loose its grip,
and let slip a golden shafted ray
to somehow lighten this most somber mood.

Brooding clouds swirl and mass,
thickening black to shroud the hope
that’s whispered back and forth
among the muted mourners
who stare ahead and see that dreaded day
they too will lay to rest their struggles once for good.

Resound the final amen close
as rose upon sharp thorny rose is cast onto the casket there,
and all, both near and nearly near
retreat to cluck and scratch about the dear one
left to sleep and dream beneath the clay
and dirt and grass and rotting wood.

Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 25 November, 2014
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