After The Funeral Poem by Richard Blanch

We had buried my aunt, I remember
They say you turn afterwards to life


Perhaps it was the train
Taking me, shaking me
Away from those faces,
Those faces that really wept –
Perhaps it was the relief;
Or the profile that looked straight
Undet the shaded reading lamp.
Or the hair that brought Delos
Into the second-class carriage.

Though the oracle spoke,
Laughed,
With a fish-and-chip twang,
And sang to a lyrne
Transistorised.
It was a pyre
For the grief
I could not feel –
Now I idealise,
Running from numbness
And guilt.