The next lot are due
In this well oiled procession
Of folk who have made enough of life
To be worthy of cremation, or burial
It seems to me, though I am no expert
That a graveside affair offers more opportunity
To unhurried contemplation, also to be able
To think of life in the natural cycle of nature
But it is cold outside, even in September
With frosted words; written, read, and spoken
Whereas the crematorium, as you might expect
Is fairly well heated; but warmer words, no
So there you have it
You take your choice, and you get on with it
Spacious cold comfort farm, or packed tight
On uncomfortable, utilitarian, wooden chairs
