Mother.

Life trapped insideyour flowerpots, Women's Weekly, strewn, distressed Across the floor the clutter knots Yourhalcyonyouth, your decadesdressed in diamonds, heels and nothing but, The photo frame was silver clad, Your hair fell down as if uncut, Youthful, smiling, slightly sad. Radio 4, blare out the waves of normalcy, in stark relief The rigor mortis quietly staves away the humdrum, startling grief - Bent double over flowers, build yourparty out of gentle things, The end of life in vigour filled, my god, just hear her when she sings.