Perfect weather

We stood around you
as cold as tomb stones,
each epitaph etched on our ribs.
The anger of death rolled
heavy northern clouds,
that hissed hailstones
onto black polished shoes.

I didn't recognise your words,
the service spoke of a child
I had never met,
still I offered them a piece of you
that they had never seen.
Your mother had lipstick on her teeth
I held her warm gloved hand
as she thanked me for coming
and invited me for sandwiches
and tepid tea.

I drove the car home too fast,
annoyed at the weather
at you,
Julie said that she didn't want to die
so I slowed down
and decided not to cry.