Tuesday 1 February 2011
Andreas Andersson
I do not know death
I remember a bird in childhood buried
under a tree - oak out by the field.
It looked so small. The grandest
tombstone in all the county.
Then there was my grandpa -
his whole stomach riddled
with cancer - one day gone.
Church service with red banners
befitting a socialist, followed
by cremation. My grandma cried.
My cousins chased me round
the churchyard.
My grandma died
a few years ago,
eighty four years old.
Few people showed.
Sandwiches and beer.
Then we went home.
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andreas andersson
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5 comments:
Excellent. Somehow the progression of events felt formal and right; like a whole novel about a life, in a few lines. Nicely done. And thanks.
Peter
What a great poem.
Beautifully written!
Interesting how age has a different take on death.
Great poetic work, Andreas. Each death has a strong image.
Peter, Akeith, Jenny and Gordon - thank you for your kind words.
They are much appreciated.
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