The coffins poem by James Reaney
These coffins are submarines
That will sail beneath the slopes
Of grey-green old graveyards.
One white lone sailor to each
Submarine that navigates
The wormy seas of earth.
With shrouds for uniforms
Stitched by weeping tailors
These bony sailors
Shall sail deep field and morass
Without periscope or compass
They’ll only dimly know
That someday they must flow
Into the final harbour
On some high gray shore
Where the Lord shall weigh
Men’s wicked souls on Doomsday.
That will sail beneath the slopes
Of grey-green old graveyards.
One white lone sailor to each
Submarine that navigates
The wormy seas of earth.
With shrouds for uniforms
Stitched by weeping tailors
These bony sailors
Shall sail deep field and morass
Without periscope or compass
They’ll only dimly know
That someday they must flow
Into the final harbour
On some high gray shore
Where the Lord shall weigh
Men’s wicked souls on Doomsday.