Seasons End

The days were getting shorter, 

so I loiter here with intent

and watch summers sad lament

while the remains of

a being are covered in cement.

Another box of burnt ash goes into the ground

everyone stood, their thoughts their own
as if pondering something quite profound.
The drumming dripping of rain on
broad autumn leaves the only sound.

‘Look at ‘em, bloody carrion,’ vultures badly clad in black
sitting upon towers of unsympathetic indifference
these thieves and vagabonds waiting to fill their sack.
They’re not fooling anyone, dabbing superficial tears.
An anonymous aunt, sour siblings, and other close family,
and that bloke, who’s a relative but who no one’s seen for years.

You had no use for him when he was alive
as for his existence? To you lot it was just a lie.
But here you all are, hapless beings of greed
and to think we all came from the same seed.

They’re all here,

like evicted woodworm crawling from the rot.
The egg and cucumber sandwiches wont make you ill

nor the warm weak beer…well maybe?

But the fact that he died penniless surely will…

And were it not my funeral, I’d shoot the bloody lot.

Paul Williams©2006