Remembering Ken

seascape by Ken Reah

The day of Ken's funeral (on Tuesday) was a cold, damp and grey day.  There is a word for that - when the weather is in sympathy with the occasion -which I can't remember, but which Ken would have known. He was not only an artist, but also a linguist.

The service was just right. Lots of people came - family, friends, many of whom have been towers of strength - Helen and Jennifer coming outstandingly to mind.

Ken's son in law spoke, his youngest daughter spoke, his stepson spoke, his grandaughter spoke, and my sister spoke too - getting through it almost without faltering.

Among the readings was a poignant poem about Autumn by his oldest daughter, and this one written by Ken himself.

              It's untitled.  And its by Ken Reah.

                "Call this summer?" he says.
            "You wouldn't think it was June."
       "No," I said, "you wouldn't, would you?

               Our dogs, dripping,
       Conduct their circular civilities, nose to tail,
   Then, shaking off the surplus, go their separate ways -
            So many wet things to sniff.
   Through the curtain of drips through the brim of my hat
            I plan my route.
The dam on my left, its surface pocked by countless small explosions,
      The ducks, unfazed, glide through them - but no-one's
            Bought them bread, today.
      The heron stands, knee-deep, waiting.
The unrelenting rain drums down upon my hat, as, exchanging rueful grins
            We too separate and go our ways.
      I have a Gene Kelly moment, and, with first a glance around,
            dance a step or two, before the old man in me intervenes,
                Before hysteria takes over.

That poem contains an essence of Ken. Some people would just see a gloomy walk in the park in the rain.  But he saw how wonderful it all is.  He really truly appreciated the gift of life, of being on this beautiful wondrous planet, in this splendid universe.

And that is what makes me hope that one day, when the time comes, his Creator will wake him from the dreamless sleep of death, during the Thousand Years.  The wait will not matter to Ken who now knows nothing of the years going by over his head.

The Service ended with his youngest daughter (who has a lovely voice) singing "I must go down to the Sea again" - followed by a short tape of lark song.     Ken loved the sea, and he loved birds.   So that made me think how wonderful if, a few hundred years from now, Ken wakes up to a sky full of larksong and the sound of the sea in the distance.