Poems

PALL BEARER

He died too young, my father, Paul –
but, knowing he was dying,
he kept his courage up
collecting jokes
on death.

Friends and family all pitched in
with more,
my younger son the worst –
the sicker and sadder the gag
the better:
a conspiracy of gallows humour
about the bed
that bridged the years,
contained our tears,
diffused Dad’s fears.

“He was the man, Mum,
he was the man.”

At his funeral, a coffin corner short,
my brothers asked my elder son,
tall and not yet twenty,
to help carry his grandad in.

He shouldered this responsibility
with grace and ease
but, thoughtful as we left, he said
“Is that really what they’re called?
Paul bearers?”

Dad would have liked that.