My Grandad left me his coffin.
He often told me so.
It was solid wood he said
tongue and groove, deposit down.
When my time came they could turf
him out and pour me in.
Only right I should take a turn.
He was a widower too long
without a dog for company
and missed Nana mightily.
Every Friday after fish for lunch
cooked by himself and paired
with stout and buttered stottie
he would lie out on the village green,
flat on his back if the weather was mild,
playing dead after the antique style
of stone knights in musty churches.
A teddy at his feet to simulate
the usual faithful thing
a lion lost to time or even a pig.
When Grandad died for real
I told my coffin tale. Still,
they went ahead and cremated him.
D W Evans