Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.
My grandson, then 14, found this poem and insisted on reading it at my OH's funeral
The pastor who conducted the service was not happy about this, claiming to have conducted many funerals where children were supposed to read something/say something/play an instrument and they all dried up
He finally agreed that Jamie could do it on the understanding that he could take over and read it himself if necessary
Jamie was word perfect and di not need his notes, he had taken advice from his school drama teacher about the delivery and was so good the assembled mourners broke into spontaneous applause