The sound of my father’s shoes 

echoes against the plywood

with a reassuring familiarity 

as I wear them to his funeral. 

I can hear his voice – every now and then – 

Every time 

I utter one of his mannerisms

in my childhood language. 

The cycle of self-centred perspectives resumes

As I stare out

into the distance

Surrounded by a half-unknown crowd

Watching an overgrown shrub

Its rich green

popping against the faded,

peeling white of the local cemetery wall

As I reflect on the notion

That in the end

It all comes down to

Death.