THE FUNERAL GAME That winter we came to terms with death. Every shoe-box was a coffin For anything small and dead And we wrapped them in calicoes, velvets ... We grabbed hats, coats, umbrellas, >From the hallway to dress as mourners, Someone struck an iron girder in the hay-shed To sound the funeral bell, John Joe beat the dead march on a saucepan. We held wakes, issued death certificates To old crows, kittens, chickens ... Lined the graves with stones, Erected crosses with ash sticks. We pretended to cry, struggled with Latin prayers, Filled the wet graves in the clover field, Genuflected in the direction of a whin bush, The rain pelting down We left by a side-gap, Back to the hay-shed for tea, bread, butter ... For all who travelled long journeys. -- Noel MONAHAN