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                       I
 Was a midwinter morn gravely put
    to ground, and parish 
                    leaves wet underfoot
 led to the sermon ‘neath the mount  
    and to its dirges inside 
                    the gates of Eden.
 Where souls walk 
                         in funeral marches
‘neath a gothic bell tower and arches

                       II
 Beyond the spirit house altar light
    I heard a lone voice 
                    not of my own recite:
"The Lord is my shepherd…and I
    will dwell in the house 
                of the Lord forever”.
 My, what woe it is 
                          so young to die
 and have to say the long goodbye

                       III
 There I was immobilised and weak
    with no voice to sing 
                         or words to speak,
 and close as you were to touch
    I could not hold you 
                     or bring you back.
 Unto mighty God 
                         in eerie cavalcade
 silently for that day to end I prayed

                       IV
 The bells of Greyfriars in my head
    tolled for the living 
                 and tolled for the dead!
 And with each loud toll bid farewell
    for I knew there would 
                   no resurrection be.
 That cold ill wind 
                        and sea and sky
 does my own dark cast personify

                       V
 Forgive me my duty of care defiled
     and forgive the ways
                       of a miscreant child.
 If I had my time and yours again
     I’d adore you, mother,
                    and be a better son.
 On your death bed 
                            you spoke to me
 and still your words echo mournfully

                       VI
 Sorrowed is the deprivation of life,
    grieved is a mother, 
                       daughter, and wife!
 In my own end rehearsal I muse
    what becomes the soul 
                     of redemption lost?
 And what reprove 
                          you leave behind -
 it is a meditation that fills my mind

                       VII
 O’ Death has pierced your defences,
    snuffed the flame 
                     and dulled my senses.
 So it is and so it must be so soon
    that we drink the bitter 
                         milk of mortality.
 So be it God saved 
                         you and your fears
 from this veil of sin and vale of tears

                       VIII
 Buried under is but bone and lock
    in the honeycomb hills
                       of Schnapper Rock.
 But below my own auguries of death
    lies a body of memory
                           destined to live.
 Here I stand upon 
                         your tomb of clay
 but its flowers have long died away


             Written : July 1992
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