At The Humanist Funeral Of A Choir Member

The light about the place was beautiful;
This autumn, being late, the leaves were there,
Still clinging, glowing red, as, dutiful
To their position, marking spaces, where
The dust of others was, beneath them, spread
They made a metaphor for memory.

They brought your coffin in, and as we said,
Because you sang, it seemed derisory;
Your huge form and your deep bass voice,
Contained within that dreadful enclosed space.
And those who loved you best, as was your choice,
Made eulogy sans reference to God's grace,

And marked your passing without giving song
But grief expressed in words alone seemed wrong.