An Irish Family Funeral(CPlatt) On the day of the funeral the rain fell from gloomy skies
Cousins and family friends not seen for years
Had made their way over, descending on our town,
Some arriving by ferry, others catching early morning flights.

After the church, our eyes still red with sadness,
we headed to the pub where the wake would be held.
We spoke of our loss and what she meant to each of us.
Telling our remembrances, both funny and sad.

Raising a glass of whiskey, a drop of the pure.
Somebody pulled out their phone, let’s get a photo.
We all joined in the scrum, hugging, arms linked,
sad smiles for the camera. Click. Click. Click.

The Irish music started playing, the whiskey was flowing,
we sang The Auld Triangle at the tops of our voices,
And told stories of the past, tall tales and family legend.
We spoke of here and now, our lives, family, work.

The whiskey kept flowing, my voice becoming a slur,
Speaking to a relation about books, art and film.
Then it was time to leave, saying goodbye, keep in touch.
The exchange of phone numbers and updated addresses.

The next day my head hurt and the room waltzed around me
Snap shots of the day poured back in double measures,
My singing, the bad jokes I told where nobody laughed,
Breaking my heart in the church, then drunk at the wake.

I called my mother, letting her know I’d survived.
Asking if I had disgraced myself with the Irish relatives.
She replied saying that the family had already been in touch,
and that my name been mentioned in despatches.

From getting emotional at the service, to slurring and singing drunk,
talking broken biscuits, of how writing was my art.
How had that gone down? What had they made of all that?
They say, she replied, that you have a good heart.

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