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Speaking of the Dead

Though I did not grieve too much, I can recall,
clear as any photograph, the details of your funeral;
the priest who knew your spinster love of flowers, 
the fall that took your independence and your sense,
the crow that cawed when incense filled the chancel 
and the apse, the men who bore you past the trees 
bedecked in yellow for the match, the lichened lettering 
I traced to check a date, the gossip at the gate 
who urged her friend to make an offer for your 
widowed Ford Fiesta  barely driven, well-maintained 
– the dinner in the bright hotel, the wine that eased 
the nerves, the umpteenth telling how my grandad 
leant against the hay and taught us how to smoke
 and less talk of the less remote; 
my mother’s failing sight, my father’s final stroke, 
and not a word for you, lonely in the clay;
not a word, from mushroom soup to crème brulée.

Frank Farrelly

  The Moth is a beautiful creature. David Mitchell

No other magazine like it. Billy Collins

A rare literary gem. Dermot Healy

The Moth is an amazing magazine. Donal Ryan


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