Fallen Mummer on Brookfield Marsh

If I die, this is the way it should be:
surrounded by those I love, who love me.

Not wandering lost among the ice floes
like a hunter, stumbling as the storm grows

stronger. Not adrift in the Labrador,
on a wayward schooner, hull ripped, sails torn

by iceberg caprice. But warm; attended
by a sainted entourage, befriended

and familial; comforted by Yuletide
rhymes and songs; in kindness wrapped and quilted.

The wind flutters our veils like angel wings.
This starry sky deep consolation brings.

Away your tears, for I die not alone;
but stay till death’s sled comes to whisk me home.


  1. Inspired by a David Blackwood etching of a fallen mummer surrounded by friends.

    Mummers were actors in traditional folk plays, originally from England. In Eastern Canada groups used to go house-to-house in the deep winter, much like carolers. Houses were spaced far between, and sometimes winters were so harsh that such crossings could be perilous indeed.

    Short link - http://bit.ly/s4fmummer

  2. They still do it in my home town, Change Island's NL. It's an island which still makes it safe to do so...it was so much fun! I was home in 1993 and we went mummering~what a great memory! Rum, accordions, rum, dancing, rum, laughter and, oh yeah, rum! Great poem!


  3. And I always interpreted the fallen mummer to be a victim of, you guessed it, rum!



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