Coloured lights at the windows,
And, already, looks of expectation,
(Or for the fotunate) , certain knowledge
On the faces of the roadside children.
With modern haste, three black cars,
In funeral line,
Solemnise the pre-Christmas traffic.
How many onlookers share my thought
That Christmas is the worst of all times
For burying, or burning?
But then, the reaping of this harvest
Is not particularly autumnal,
Nor is it governed by the whims,
And expectations of women, or man.
As the black of the rear car
Pushes the mourners into the evening,
Do our thoughts go to this time next year
When in hellish juxtaposition
A recent, and ancient death
Will be commemorated by family, and friends;
Until the growth of years
Thatch their memories.
Robert Wylie
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/funeral-at-christmas/
