Bereaved

the graves were bare, on that May mourn,
standing there, only eight of us to grieve,

it wasnt Corona, she d been ill for a while,
but didnt want to leave..

Dad was strong, as we walked up the knoll,
he was strong holding my arm,
so tears wouldn't well,

No one wants to look
to see,
the final resting place..
no one wants a gaping hole in your life,
where once a mothers love would grace..

we stood heads low,
till Bryn said..
Mum theres no hole...

What..?
the earth hasn't moved,
theres no hole dug..
Grandma has no resting place
under the crud...

We have a problem..
the funeral party cried..
the men in black..
almost died..

He sweated like a gutter rat,
a cold cold day in May,
the sod was hard like a miners hat
the sky unforbidding gray..

It didnt look proper,
Chopping the crust
in an undertakers dress..
his un glad rags were
not for this..
but for putting souls at rest..

Bryn, a Tarmac-er born and true,
took the spade and gently said..
Let me do the work instead..
it's meant for me to do....

he dug the hole with humility..
her final resting place..
made as homely as can..
blood sweat and tears of her
family..and every shovel a
prayer from the love of this man..

She was proud..
and smiled..
the old cantankerous girl..
last laugh laughed out loud.

(my friend told me this story last night..oh bless)