I remember the day of Ura May’s
funeral,
When some radio station must have found a stall,
Recordings of her lovely voice,
Those songs she sang were her choice.
They sandwiched them between other classics,
Of music to wrap through to bone and chassis.
The clear ringing notes so easy,
Swung me to other times so breezy.
Even in death she brought me happy tears,
When childhood I lived with no fears.
There in the prairie wind,
She was more than cousin and friend.
I couldn’t answer the call,
For her burial and all,
It was too far to the mountains,
No matter she cared for me, once and again.
So it was with our relationship,
Like her, aloof, reserved, not to slip,
Into the common place,
Only of blood-ties and grace.
