A Funeral

She enters late while the sun descends
like a lozenge down your throat,
she hears the Burmese monk’s prayers,
watches the deceased’s mother holding
medals, stays at the back but smells
sandalwood and varnish, grasps her purse
as twelve grey men salute the pilot,
her uncle on his final mission,
as dark advances like the ocean’s waves
and the decorated box descends.

Jake Dennis (Western Australia)
First published in Cottonmouth

1 comment:

  1. I like this simple but elegant funeral poem.


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