Funeral
Slowly, ordinarily, the unimaginable happens,
lowering the past into the dark,
covering it.
You’ll live to receive the haunts of jagged occasion
blunting to dust and dream
in the sift of going on.
Till then, though, this keeps you. The bleak clothes
turn away to leave, while – stood
between the living’s
parked cars and the ranked stones of the dead,
with all the propriety of funeral
directors’ men –
whatever’s left of the future hides its boredom
and bows its head.
Craig Dobson has had poetry, short fiction and drama published in several magazines and is working towards his first collection of poetry.