The Funeral

The girls sat in their seats,
In their pressed school uniforms.
How the church echoed with their grief,
As I walked through the doors.

I saw her on the steps,
With the stitches in her face,
But found not a single word
To complement her sad embrace.

But don't you hang around,
There's a beautiful night out there.
But on your favourite pair of shoes,
And tie a ribbon in your hair.

'Cos as that hour hand rolls by,
There's a longing in his wake,
That with each slow degree
Would wain a little heart-ache.