The Irony of Death

You were always so vigorous,

And your mind was as full of movement as your body.
When you sprang over rocks and boulders,
Or pushed waist-high through the fern,
I used to envy your strength,
And your buoyant lightness.
You were a true pagan
And Nature was your God.
You had no use for other gods,
And said so.
The day before you died you said so,
And you died bravely as you had lived,

With the farewell of a staunch comrade upon your lips.

I went to the funeral which they gave you.
No other of your real friends was there,
This was not the manner in which they were used to meet you.
The room was crowded with your husband's colleagues and their wives,
And people who had come for the sake of appearances.
We were shut in the stifling room,
With the scent of the flowers on your coffin.
A clergyman read the funeral service
Which you despised,
And the flowers wilted in the hot air.
Then I knew that you were dead
And I was glad,
For you would have wept to see how your foolish husband exposed his soul husband exposed his soul

In his endeavour to give you a proper funeral.