by Ben Macnair
These days, we only ever meet at funerals.
It is a hundred small hellos, to one long goodbye.
I spend the day being told I have my Grandfather’s eyes,
The night before I shaved my Father’s beard.
The day is not surprising, death seldom ever is.
We swap clichés, as if we were waiting for a bus.
‘They had a good innings’
‘They would have enjoyed today’
‘We did them proud’
‘It is good weather for it’
realising how little we knew about them,
knowing that our memories would form a picture,
that shifted like a kaleidoscope.