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THIS TIME, REST
IN PEACE
Ah, well!
It’s
passed.
Gone, then,
At last
Then men in funeral black
Have paid their visit.
It’s time to pack
These bits of hers,
Ready to go.
Not much to show
For nigh on five-scoore years,
Is it?
A brooch, a ring -
Thart sort of thing –
Some faded frocks,
Two time-worm clocks,
A few old sticks.
A tear pricks.
But not for long.
No, not for long.
To grieve at this death
Would be wrong.
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The loss I feel
Is for the real
Mum,
Not the relic she’d become –
Decrepit, old,
Cantankerous, cold,
And old.
God!
All in all,
That was a raw deal,
An underserved, relentless
Ordeal,
Tortorous.
To Us
Unfair.
But there!
It’s often thus
Whether in
virtue or in vice,
We all live once
But some live twice.
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