THIS TIME, REST IN PEACE

Ah, well!
Its passed.
Gone,  then,
At last

Then men in funeral black
Have paid their visit.
Its 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.

 

The loss I feel
Is for the real
Mum,
Not the relic shed  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!
Its often thus

Whether in virtue or in vice,
We all live once

But some live twice.

 

 

    By
 
ANN TRIETLIEN