My Funeral

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It is a pleasant sensation, lying back in the wicker coffin decorated with ribbons and notes, feeling my work here on Earth is (hopefully) done and I can finally rest. The sounds of the funeral celebration swim around me – subdued conversation, subtle harp music – and I’m too intrigued too lie there for long, so I get up and have a look around, which  involves me pushing up and floating through the lid of the casket, and above the gathered. It feels a bit weird, but in truth I’m a lot lighter than I normally am, due to donating any organs that could be of use to any who need them. Laughing, I realise I’m a holey ghost, for a brief while at least, but I’m useless at spooking people. It’s just too nice a day, and I don’t want to spoil it by given anyone the collywobbles. I am relieved to see it is a green funeral celebration, being held outside – somewhere beautiful in the West Country. I think I have been here before. It is a lovely site, in view of the hills I love so much, and their ancient monuments. It is a fresh, sunny day – even if there is cloud, the sun keeps breaking through, blessing the land with light, the heads of the mourners: friends, family, loved ones. I am delighted to see no one is wearing black, but a rainbow of colours, with many wearing the green and blue I requested: green to symbolise my love of the Earth, and blue for the Bardic Tradition I honoured and endeavoured to update and promote – my life’s work. It is so good to see so many beloved faces here – people dear to me from far and wide. I am deeply touched. To the strains of ‘Made to Love Magic’ by Nick Drake, the coffin is placed in the centre of the gathering, and, facilitated very graciously by a pagan celebrant – no Christian platitudes here. Spontaneously, folk stand up to share their heartfelt sentiments, memories, poems, even songs. There are sweet tears of fondness, the laughter of recognition. People who hardly known one another support each other in their grief. They are allowed to grieve in any way they wish, even if it is to show no ‘feelings’ at all. For some grief is a very private thing. Others like to externalise it, let it be witnessed – in lamentation, in weeping, in agonised moans, in dance, in stillness, in rage, in vulnerability. All is welcome here. Instead of flowers there is a collection for Tree Aid. The celebrant – could that be one of my wise friends? – leads the gatherers through the final stages. Then, as ‘Can’t Find My Way Home’ is played (the Swans’ version), the casket is conveyed to the grave where half a dozen of my closest friends lower me gently into the earth. Everyone takes turns to cast in some soil and say a few final words, in private to me. Once the grave is filled in, an oak sapling is planted on top of me, blessed with spring water from Glastonbury (red and white), Hawkwood College, and St John the Baptist’s, Boughton Green, Northampton. Forming a circle, everyone holds hands, chanting the awen three times. A plaque is attached, which simply reads: ‘Kevan Manwaring, Bard’ followed by the parentheses of my dates. And that’s that. As they depart the field of peace, the gathered pay their respects, consoling those closest to me: my partner, my family. Then, in little groups, the mourners drive away to the bardic wake, where fine food and drink await to ground everyone. Hitching a lift, I follow, but I am fading – a phantom hitchhiker. At the wake, riotously decorated with images of my life, the meadhorn is passed around and toasts are made. It is a chance to talk and share, followed by impromptu performances by my talented, bardic friends, who turn it into a bit of a session – there’s even with dancing, for what better way to celebrate a life, than with life? My books are donated, as a collection, to start a bardic library, to inspire future generations. My artwork, unusual items of clothing, and object d’art are displayed and folk help themselves to whatever speaks to them – something to remember me by. I am going … but a few details niggle me, so I whisper them to a keen-eared couple of pals, who nearly drops their drinks. Any money or continuing royalties from my ‘literary estate’, if I have any, is used to start a ‘New Awe fund’, managed by Awen Publications, to publish previously unpublished writers of any age or background willing to engage with ecobardic or goldendark principles. My papers (manuscripts, notebooks, files and folders), if there is any interest, are given to the Gloucestershire archives, or just burned in a glorious, drunken bonfire. If folk wish to remember my life then an annual, informal bardic gathering at Delapré Abbey on my birthday is my final wish – nothing grandiose, just friends and family sharing a picnic in the sun-dappled oak grove in the heart of Delapré, where it all began for me. The party continues, but I slip away. I was never good at goodbyes – until now. My soul sighs with relief as I pass on, content, deeply touched that my friends and family have honoured my wishes and given me the send off I have always wanted.

Kevan Manwaring, 20 August 2018