Beyond the chapel door two pipers played
A coronach whose sobbing grace-notes filled
The air with feelings deeper than mere words
Could plumb. Although your bier was still outside,
You yet were with us. Inside our minds, deep in,
All thoughts revolved around your central sun.
Inside, your wife, Claudine, and John, your son,
Sat on a front pew where the sunlight played
Strange patterns on each grief-drawn face; and in
The seats behind, all places, too, were filled
By friends who felt the self you were inside
Meant more to them than any of your words.
Your coffin then arrived and, afterwards,
All, standing, bowed in silent orison.
The premier and the playwright friend, beside,
In turn pronounced a eulogy and played
Upon our feelings' strings with praise heart-filled
That echoed all the griefs we kept held in.
James Stewart last, a boon companion in
The spending of good drink and better words,
Played one full dirge upon his flute and filled
The chapel with a final benison,
Then snapped it off against his knee and laid
It silent on the bier, close by your side.
Beside the river on a low hill's side
There lay the grave we put your coffin in;
Poured Irish, Scottish soil, libations; laid
Still more well-meaning wreaths of flowered words,
And took our turn with shovels until your son
Pronounced your burial wishes all fulfilled.
The tiny house you lived in was quite filled
With guests of all degrees, crammed side by side,
As food and drink flowed free as air and sun,
And all about the place, outside and in,
The dam of silence broke and guests found words
For your own worth and worth your work displayed.
With fit rites and words in season, we filled
Through you our own death-wish and left your fireside
Remembering all the times you'd let us in.