The Sound of Death.
By C. J. Black.
We stood and listened, waiting for that call
Hand in Hand as I recall
Relishing this time alone
Then as one we heard it – OCHON, OCHON.
The wailing sound, like that of the Banshee
Travelling on the wind across the briny sea
The elders told us many times it was the call of death
That a relation or dear friend was drawing their last breath.
We took little notice of what the elders had to say
Our philosophy was, sure we’ll all pass on one day
That is no consolation for those that are left behind –
The moral of this poem is, always heed your elders and to all you know, be kind.
C. J. Black