Phillips, Wycliffe Leroy

Phillips, Wycliffe Leroy
09 Aug

Wycliffe Leroy Phillips, age 68, better known as “Fisherman” of Six Mens, St. Peter formerly of Cove Bay St. Lucy, retired Mason of the Ministry of Transport and Works, Son of the late Lydia Phillips, Father of Timothy Edwards - former Foreman of Arron Parris Construction, Sheranell Edwards of Almond Beach Resorts, Emmerson Edwards and Joseph Woodroofe, Grandfather of Samantha, John, Shenise , Javere, Joshua, Duane and Tashanna Edwards and Makaila Stanford, Great-grandfather of six, Brother of Gerald Phillips, the late Ivan Philips and Carmen Austin, Uncle of Doriel, Judy, Oriel and ten others, Great-uncle of many, Cousin of many, Relative of the Phillips, Thomas and Jordan families, Special Friend of Althea McClean and Aileen Edwards, Cherished Friend of Frank McClean, Sylvia, Tony, Shannette, Andy, Faye and Grantley Chase and many others.

The funeral of Wycliffe Leroy Phillips leaves the Christovel Tyrrel Chapel of North Eastern Funeral Home on Tuesday, July 24th, 2018 at 2:00 pm for St. Clements Anglican Church Lowlands, St. Lucy, where relatives and friends are asked to meet at 3:30 p.m. for the Service of Thanksgiving, followed by the interment.

The organist and choir members are asked to attend.

Floral arrangements and tributes can be sent to Fern Greaves Funeral Services, Mount View Drive, St. Lucy no later than 1:45 p.m. on Tuesday.

Condolences to the family can be emailed to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. or posted online to

  • Stop all the clocks
    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead, Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song, I thought that love would last forever: 'I was wrong' The stars are not wanted now, put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.