The weather weighted down on all of us -
the corporate suits, December tans –
indifferent others.
Her funeral just fifteen minutes,
this the very limit of her allocation.
The Vicar, his hollow voice, electronic
echo - somewhere buried beneath his pulpit
that mucky mag’ - one eye on the clock,
false tight lips.
Only half her family there - some dispute.
Just ten people present, this then, her throng.
Sixty years ago she worked those twelve hour
night-shifts making ammunition for the War effort.
Fifty years ago she laboured in childbirth pushing
new life into an uncertain, fractured world.
I had visited her in the home she was already cold
the radio still switched on, she of the wireless
generation.
And as I walked away from the ‘Crowd’ I realised
they didn’t know me and they didn’t even know her.
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