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.



Peter Greene said...

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.


Akeith Walters said...

What a great poem.

Jenny said...

Beautifully written!

Gordon Mason said...

Interesting how age has a different take on death.

Great poetic work, Andreas. Each death has a strong image.

Andreas said...

Peter, Akeith, Jenny and Gordon - thank you for your kind words.
They are much appreciated.