Cortege

This April sun

does nothing to warm the air.

Thursday morning and

a remnant of light frost

hunkers in the shadow of the churchyard wall

treacherously icing the flags.

His birthday

and his burial:

this father’s day

his funeral.

The charcoal car breathes

around noiseless corners;

within,

the creak of

crumpled tissues

thumbed in closed hands –

hands clinging to hands –

private thoughts etched on a public face;

moist inhalations;

the mild grinding of

Goodyears on gravel.

We hang powerless

in this enormous moment

that, yes, will pass

although we know not how –

while you sit at the window table

of King Alfred’s Kitchen

checking the menu

in the midmorning sun,

a teacake,

lightly buttered,

and a bright cup of tea.

And what you do,

I have done

and will do again.

But at this time

the black hole within me

sucks all meaning from the surrounding world

the impenetrable

event horizon

that freezes the senses

and strikes us all dumb.

You glance up to see the hearse in front

And I see you search

the rear windows of this

following cortege

looking for a face to recognise.

Our eyes momentarily meet

before you look back

to the menu card

and brush an uncomfortable crumb

from the lace cloth

spread before you.