Read by me at the funeral of my grandfather, Samuel Bird (1915 – 2010)
your eyes forever closed,
opening ours to our now-
eternal blindness to you.
you can’t wake up.
we can’t wake up.
(my debt to you demands this.
my nature at these times is to
be small and silent.
my dreams humble, not grandiose.)
I knew you,
not well, but
in me more of you is built
than in those who stand
to gain from your departure,
to sing His praises
no matter who you were.
I cannot fit your years onto my page.
then, I will keep you secret in my boundless heart
till the lids of my dead eyes
and lifeless tomb are sealed.
but one moment, recurring—
your hand, weathered, withered,
long overworked, now laid to rest
on my young, lazy knee;
and in your sky-coloured eyes
the sparkle of your smile, the sun that’s now set.
“my girl,” you’d say, “you know I love you.”
you knew I loved you too.
you’ve lost everything;
I’ve lost you.