Last Post.

Two men carry 

the white coffin 

the size of a small toy box 

up the aisle 

of the chapel. 

No one whispers 

or coughs or sighs 

except from the front 

a few muted cries.  

One or two turn a head 

to gaze, but most 

look ahead, unwilling 

to watch the passing dead.

The chaplain stands 

hands in prayer mode, 

eyes focused. 

Music filters, 

soft, sombre. 

The baby sleeps 

in death's embrace. 

No more cries 

or giggles. 

No more smiles 

or eyes so bright. 

Just the stillness 

of eternal night.