Updated: Jul 19
A poem by Rick Field
Rick is a member of Windsor Humanists
Should such prose be drenched in death,
point towards the ending of all things;
tell of darkness, of pain
Not at all!
A celebration rather, of a life complete,
full circle returned in now perpetual cycle.
Tears? yes; not just of mourning, but of laughter and appreciation of lives enriched by their existence.
Hurt? of course; but soothed by warm memories of love and good times.
Yearning? perhaps; but of things to come, as well as those gone.
But gone in physical terms only.
A corporal retreat,
always present for as long as we recall.
In that way; immortal, for a spell, ‘til the last of us depart
in that same way,
our own immortality begins, in absentia.
But of that, we shall have no apprehension.
Such loss is palpable, almost within reach.
A whisper, a shadow, solidly ethereal.
The cave of grief from which we shall emerge,
Just… not yet.
As for those of us that breath still;
our brief visit to the precipice of life
For some – a fortunate novice,
still others – a miserable club we had no wish to join.
No invitation sought, all inclusive,
yet each of us there in short notice, without complaint.
And within that sacred room, we gather.
Singular minds mingle with one thought, one focus.
We desire not to linger, yet dare not leave too soon.
Lest we forget.
for there enters our loved one,
slowly borne aloft like an Emperor,
tenderly set to rest one last time, nestled within and flanked by the brightest of flowers.
Affectionately depicted and framed at either side, familiarly radiant with life.
A collective cloud of sadness floats above,
linking us all, reigning supreme,
as we reluctantly depart our fondest memories
and join together as one.
So we sit, sombrely listening, remembering.
Simultaneously in need, and freely giving, of unending comfort.
Eighteen hundred seconds of shared sobriety before we step outside,
relieved and released.
And there we hug, we talk, we eat, we drink,
we share tales of joy.
And tentatively, we endeavour to smile once more.
For the future – and present – whilst once paused, marches on.