Sunday, 19 August 2018

Traffic Lights...

The car stops at the traffic lights

The one behind parked so closely

Through the back window

I can clearly see the crumpled, teary faces

Of the mourners within

Cold eyes staring blankly ahead

Studiously intent on their performance

Of their own, personal interpretation of sorrow.

How entertaining

To witness such a parody of emotion

Played out

 Through the strained, tumbling, debris

The situation commands.

Flakes of fallen, sodden tissues overloaded

With evidence of their grief

Cling to the black costumes of the cast

Each flake awaiting the applause of its audience

To be provided by the obligatory mumbling

Of others condolences

And by the sombre passing of hastily scribbled

Sympathy cards.

Bravo! Bravo!

Such a moving production

Surely worthy of an encore?

Which there will be, of course

Once the players are gathered together for the last act

The finale

The flamboyancy of their floral tributes serving

To verify and measure

The earnestness of their regard

For the leading lady.

How touching.

And how unforgivably empty, the play of it all

For never in life was any appreciation delivered

Never in life were tears shed in true sympathy for the now deceased

Never in life did any one member of the spurious troupe care to listen

 Nor choose to 'hear' the real, desperate reply to their automated question

"How are you today?"

Not a one.

Without doubt, the only genuine tears

Ever to crawl down their cheeks

Are the ones spilled for themselves.

No surprises there.




The traffic lights change

Granting permission to move forward

Allowing access to the destination

Of their journey

And with that permission

I also move on

My spirit returning

To the white silk of my temporary lodgings

In the back of the hearse

Where even that very silk which my waxen form rests upon

Is fake

A cheap, rough version of the real thing.

Of no matter

The ground will welcome me soon enough

The ground will gain nourishment from my passing

And, in due course, pass it on

The ground will comfort me

And at last, expose my hidden worth.

I am eager to reach such contentment.

Move swiftly on, driver!

Let the theatre of this absurdity come to its end

Far better things await me

Beyond the final curtain.

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard


  1. A super poem and the corpse narrating is fabulous.

    1. I'm always thankful for your reading my stuff..'cos I cherish your commnents xx

  2. This is the best one yet, Lynn... The twist in the middle was brilliantly done!

  3. Ohh, thank you! You've made this old Garg...very happy x