Your brother
has laid flowers
on your stone
today Ole.

Tulips, pink,
purple and white,
I think.  

The black
memorial stone,
sculptured book,
what beauty
here stands;
chiselled words,
name and dates,
else all said,
to mark and say
you’re dead.

Aba wishes,
as do others,
it was not so,
that stone
was not in place,
that you were
here still,
face to face.  

But fact is
that you are
and that it is
in place,
book sculptured
and designed as such,
skilfully done
and made to last;
outlive us
who come see
and make our visit,
steady and firm,  
granite made,
and there
beside you,
Ole, we also
will be boxed
and gently laid.