Clinton, thank you for that - quite beautiful.
But what is it about November that it seems so tied up with passing and remembrance, as though it were one of the open gateways of the year? Last week I buried by grandmother (not personally, you understand - the gravediggers might have taken it amiss), and tomorrow is the 20th anniversary of my father's death. A weird time of year...
Still, even when maudlin, there are lighter moments.
In my grandmother's case it was particularly funny seeing a lifelong rather reactionary Tory being buried within 60 feet of Karl Marx, surrounded by late luminaries from the struggles for freedom in South Africa and Iraq. I don't know about turning in the grave, but I'm sure I saw the coffin wobble...
And in my father's case, I can't remember his funeral without smiling at the memory of Joe, a hard as nails Cockney with a voice like a bag of gravel, who turned up on the doorstep on the morning of the funeral in full Highland rig, complete with bagpipes, to volunteer to play a lament in front of the hearse - which he did beautifully - and then proceeded to get blissfully pissed at the wake, "Cos your old man was a nice bloke and he would have appreciated it." Which of course he would!