The black tarred hearse arrives at the crematorium,

going no faster that three miles per hour,

it glides to a stop, measured, composed,

running out of steam, the engine making a last growling sound

of torture

as it silently falls asleep.

 

I watch from the shaded part of the graveyard

having taken time out to enjoy

the tranquillity that other people’s passing secures

and in the bright brilliant sunshine, I think of the grandfather

I never had the will to bury as the coffin containing James Collins