Premature

Backwards we all went
past the chip shop in the car,
past the busy roundabout
that used to be a cinema.
Turned in by a yellow pub,
took the long steep gravel drive,
held our breath collectively
and listened to your mother cry.

What is there to really say?
Your last tomorrow was yesterday?

No sermon to speak. No sound advice.
We sang some hymns.
Your coffin looked nice.