The Funeral Poem by David Lewis Paget

The village lay in silence
As I lounged there, on the hill,
The grass so soft and evergreen,
The flowers, petalled still,
The morning sun shone brightly
As I lay, without a care,
And watched the village come awake,
I watched the village stir.

The baker with his basket
Dropping off each loaf of bread,
The milkman chinking bottles
As the wives stirred from their bed,
The countrymen at breakfast
Peering out to greet the day,
The cock had crowed just once that morn,
The fox had had its way.

Then later on that morning
I could hear the church bell toll,
And the mourners, dressed in black
Filed out, the widow in her shawl,
Her walk seemed so familiar,
I guessed it was a friend,
And pondered on this life of ours,
How soon it seemed to end.

The bearers soon appeared, heads bowed,
The coffin seemed so slight,
To carry all those hopes and dreams
Toward that final night,
They led the whole procession
At a stately, regal pace,
Toward the path up on the hill
Where God would lend him grace.

They weaved and turned along the track
Where lay the cemetery,
I stood as they approached, I saw
They'd have to pass by me,
But then the vicar halted as
He came into my view,
I asked: ‘Who is the fallen one? '
He said: ‘We come for you! '

12 August,2012