My favourite one

FUNERAL

A cortege has just passed.

Huge black motor cars

cutting their ponderous way

through the street. The occupants

all have washed this morning,

and donned black habits

and white manners through which

little grains of shock discreetly

stammer on whisky breath

of spiked dawn tea, and tangle

in the netting and respectable gloom.

There are tell-tales on the faces:

poor whoever it was

going to a better place

there was a smile on his face

he's at rest, you see

thank God it's not me.

Something comforting about a funeral,

somebody else's; second chance perhaps.

Cars of all colours belting past now.

The street takes a deep breath

and smiles as though it had never happened.

This is my favourite poem of Alex, my late husband, who always managed to see the funny side of things, and remark on them.