Firm belief that will be brought back to life,
expressed to me by the Catholic man.
So, buried whole, instruction to his wife,
then all of him will return when he can.

A forlorn hope, but a hope all the same,
this belief he’s carrying to the end.
Superstition is a way to explain,
but on his religion, feels must depend.

Resurrection of him personally.
In the grave can wait until arises.
Then, to a heaven imaginary.
With his God and Savour, this comprises.

A just reward for his goodness and faith.
Hope he gets to this final resting place.


Age, includes a vicious teasing by Death.
Gives notice of imminent destruction.
Know time left is running out. Less and less.
However think, obvious deduction.

Threatens agony and oblivion.
Complete separation from all that know.
Creeps up upon, almost reptilian.
When grips and bites, implies may not let go.

That metaphor, though, may not do justice.
Death put in pretty close to a monster,
when nothing like, seems to be its promise.
Clear abstraction, maybe, but can’t be sure.

But, never stops reminding of its force.
Teases, has a seat with me on my horse.


Gone limp. Totally without reflexes.
Just flesh and bone, devoid of any strength.
Possible activity arrested;
being totally without a defence.

Gone limp. I saw carried from the death camp,
a man’s body resembling a jelly.
Also seen on film, at some place distant,
dead man, not moving, involuntary.

When picked-up, to dispose of the remains,
Some features, … legs, head, arms … , likely to flop.
No presence. No support system, explains
all that, when was alive could move, now drops.

From such murder, with luck will be exempt,
but a time, we as well will have gone limp.


It is not a game. Death is not a game.
Life is not recyclable, in that sense.
Illusions of what is beyond, insane,
if claimed those are based on experience.

The delusion is individual,
although can be a collective madness.
Reaching God, an aim pretty typical.
Arriving there, though, is mysterious.

Something essentially me, living on.
That’s another of the cards in the pack.
Anything to mitigate ‘when you’re gone
you’re gone’, and to life there’s no coming back.

It softens the impact to have such dreams,
but nothing is exactly what it seems.


Poignancy for a life which will be lost.
Approaching inevitability.
Sadness at the inestimable cost.
No longer an improbability;

for it is now within the horizon,
and is coming toward relentlessly.
Obviously the case that will cry some,
even when accepting that it will be.

The land will remain. The river still flow;
But they’ll be a notable absentee.
Whatever changes, not around to know.
But, to the end, will retain majesty.

The body too weak a vessel to stay,
but the person glorious, I would say.


It is a world where things do not live long.
Flowers blossom then, sadly, they are gone.
Yet, could say that replacements come along.
But to think that permanent, would be wrong.

Individually, life is quite short.
Collectively, the same kind continues,
through many millennia, we are taught.
But, extinction means that discontinues.

To be utterly finished, is the norm.
To be absent-minded absolutely.
Some with fanciful view that will re-form,
but no evidence, unfortunately.

Every funeral, the truth I see.
My own encasement by this mystery.


A rigid mask as a face covering.
A double fixture, for a pair of lungs.
Be without prospect of recovering.
With the active, no longer be amongst.

Stay in a stationary position.
Incongruously, as a bulky sack.
Any questions meet with inhibition.
Not receptive enough to answer back.

The heart’s beating and pumping, flatlining.
End for the brain and its a.k.a. kind.
All the dead, been before, an aligning,
if anything here or there, to align.

The face’s skin, with parts sunken and raised,
until by a bony skull, that’s replaced.


“Where there is death there is defecation.”
That was the murder detective’s comment.
It must induce some bowel relaxation.
It is what happens around the moment.

Maybe, before, out of fear, shits oneself.
But there is this after-effect, also.
It is just the body’s residual ‘filth’.
Where the death was, can be pretty sure so.

The stain, therefore, initial evidence.
But that is the extent, forensically.
Then, on to other clues of relevance.
And, clean-up of faeces, intensively.

Be apologies for loss of control
from dead one, I‘m sure, if this state were known.


The utter immobility of him.
His dead body in the coffin, on view.
No facility of life functioning.
Nothing stirring, in this state, to rescue.

I saw him. He was recognisable.
The man I recognised, frozen over.
What he might say, indecipherable.
Speechless in the stillness taken over.

Dressed in his shirt, tie and liked cardigan.
His hand on his other one, at his waist.
This the last time I’ll see him. This, the end.
Relinquished, his place in the human race.

The whole corpse concept find hard to embrace,
as can conceive of myself in that place.


“It’s your funeral”, the odd expression.
Someone making a decision, it’s thought
which could go wrong – despite the intention –
against advice, whether or not that sought.

Ritual for the dead, the metaphor.
Action taken could die on the taker.
The one to blame, the speaker making sure,
No-one else but the decision-maker.

Maybe the choice was really important.
Counted a great deal to make the right one.
Yet, if it doesn’t get the result meant,
A huge loss, then, may well be the outcome.

And losing one’s life, biggest loss of all,
so the worst would be “it’s your funeral.”


Preparation. Is this preparation?
Am I preparing myself for my death?
No. It is just my imagination.
After my exaltations, nothing’s left.

Prepared, I suppose, as I’ll ever be.
Although, suspect whilst living, unprepared.
Suddenly. No doubt happen suddenly.
Reassuring notions, for me, not shared.

How can one prepare for devastation?
Only by delusion or ignoring.
Perhaps can keep calm with meditation.
But doesn’t help, I think, God-imploring.

Preparedness, likely preposterous.
Ahead, oblivion’s there mocking us.


What a dangerous world we all live in.
Thinking we’re safe, but we’re vulnerable.
At any time, tragedy beginning.
It’s as if catastrophe’s integral.

Unlucky, of course, if in a war zone;
unpleasantly close to a bombardment;
subject to powerful force on your own;
or bear the brunt of horrid government.

And even when tucked oneself away safe,
an accident could easily occur.
Be a natural disaster, take place.
Face health problems that didn’t have before.

Death always seems to be lurking nearby.
And then there’s the issue of how time flies.


A minute’s the same for everyone.
A moment of life which passes quickly.
Nominally equal, under the sun,
for all those alive to live, put simply.

Could be, though, time of joy or suffering.
Doing activity, or just thinking.
Receiving, … good or bad …, or offering.
Speaking to someone or just listening.

For rich or poor it is the same unit.
For the educated, and those not, too.
For the young and the old; both can use it.
As do those social, or in solitude.

A minute less time alive, once it’s done.
Only this, equal for everyone.