Coloured lights at the windows, <br />And, already, looks of expectation, <br />(Or for the fotunate) , certain knowledge <br />On the faces of the roadside children. <br />With modern haste, three black cars, <br />In funeral line, <br />Solemnise the pre-Christmas traffic. <br />How many onlookers share my thought <br />That Christmas is the worst of all times <br />For burying, or burning? <br /> <br />But then, the reaping of this harvest <br />Is not particularly autumnal, <br />Nor is it governed by the whims, <br />And expectations of women, or man. <br />As the black of the rear car <br />Pushes the mourners into the evening, <br />Do our thoughts go to this time next year <br />When in hellish juxtaposition <br />A recent, and ancient death <br />Will be commemorated by family, and friends; <br />Until the growth of years <br />Thatch their memories.<br /><br />Robert Wylie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/funeral-at-christmas/
