All those years of hope
Fitted, now, into a wooden six foot box.
From girlhood’s putting on
Of burdensome beauty
Into the chiffon-sixties of London town
Then Devon, and the farm
Australia, divorce, and worse
The utter confusion, the end of hope,
You were sliding down that slippery slope
Where, at last, the dreadful daylight starts
Of unkept promises, and broken hearts.
And, back, finally, to Cheshire and alcohol.
You daughter and your brother both left bereft
Both your husbands already dead,
What else is there to be said?
Except the next time I attended a funeral
Here in this crematorium beside a busy trunk road
It was to say goodbye to your dear brother
With wild flowers and a voice that shook,
Delivering Chris’s eulogy I’m barely articulate 
What with the searing pain of loss upon loss.

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