After two decades of remission

she insisted none of her children

should gaze on her body when dead.

The hair loss was always a problem,

and who's to know if a wig

were fire retardant

or suitable for cremation?

She'd a morbid fear of mockery

and wouldn't have liked to ask.

As if by way of compensation

she bequeathed us a thoughtful poem.

"Only a mother..." I recall it began;

heart-wringing but poorly written;

bringing tears to the eye at first reading

then eventually mere irritation.

My brothers and I bore the coffin.

She were never a biggish woman;

still I struggled with the burden.

When my father died the old house was sold,

we made twenty grand each as an outcome.

One breeds dogs, one sells property,

one backs horses, one plans robbery.

I got the poetry; I get the mockery.