If I wore a hat I would have tipped it as the funeral procession went by.
I saw the beautiful flowers describing the deceased as Alexander.
My morbid curiosity I knew would get the better of me.
When at home I opened the obituaries’ page and had a gander.

Alexander Jones was ninety-three and adored by his family.
He was to be interned in the cemetery of St Martins’ Church.
All donations for the hospice where he spent his last weeks,
And a few bob to plant his favourite tree, a lovely silver birch.

I imagined the description of him given by the celebrant priest.
He lived a long and full life, made his mark wherever he went.
He’d married Phyllis and had two kids and they had off spring galore.
He’d spent years in a factory and picked apples down in Kent.

A member of his local bowls club and supporter of Luton Town.
He’d given a talk to a local school about his experience in the war.
He’ lived his life well and paid any dues without exception.
His life had been plain and simple and he’d never caused an uproar.

His great granddaughter Grace read aloud a poem she’d written,
Describing her favourite old person and their relationship as well.
His framed photo stood proudly on the top of his coffin.
They played his favourite piece of music, ‘Aint’ that Swell’.

A fitting send off to a man who’d lived his life simply.
Who I’d only got to know when he passed me in the street.
Heading to the church and his final resting place.
But I’m really delighted we actually got to meet.