West Coast Funeral

John Ewen

We couldn’t say that we weren’t warned.

Above our heads grey tattered clouds,

low off a troubled sea, still scudded in,

studded the bush clad hills beyond.

The storm’s first drops were in the wind

that blew us in the church porch door

before we took our places close

behind the huddle of bereaved.

The prayers, the eulogy, the hymns

barely rose above the rattle

upon stained glass, the steady whistle

of wind in ancient high-pitched rafters.

We prayed: as much for the storm

to take a break as the deceased,

and so it did as we eased him

into the hearse, then all moved off.

But then it was as if some spiteful force,

malicious storm-sprite, waited

until we were on the way

up to the graveside on the plateau.

before the rain came at us. Everyone

else stayed in their cars, the windows

down a notch as if those tiny slits

allowed some fellowship with us.

Joined by just the bereaved, the vicar,

undertaker, we took the weight,

stepped forward, our coats blown

up, soaked to the armpits, 

gripping slippery handles, edging

along wet planks, trusting greasy

clay each side would not give way.

Below, some sheaves of torn long grass

placed by the sexton did not conceal

the depth of water: this was pakihi -

iron-pan land that would nor drain–

resisting taming or any easy resting of the dead.

Nothing – wind, rain, iron pan ground

~ none want him to be buried.

Listen wind, rain and iron pan!

Nor do we. We do not want him

to be dead, he is not old yet.

What can we do but let him down?

We lowered him dreading the floating

of the coffin; we could not tell:

the sky a wall of water

our eyes were filled with rain.

Those quick last words to commit

him to his Maker, a scattering of earth.

A scattering of people

~ we went to find dry clothes.