A wardrobe gapes, a mourner tries
Her several styles of howling-guise:
You’d rather not, yet you must go
Briskly around on beaming show.
A soft black gown with pearl corsage
Won’t assuage your smashed ménage.
It suits you as you are so pale.
Still, do not get that saffron veil.
Your dead don’t want you lying flat.
There’ll soon be time enough for that.
It’s late. And it always will be late.
Your small monument’s atop its hillock
Set with pennants that slap, slap, over the soil.
Here’s a denatured thing, whose one eye rummages
Into the mound, her other eye swivelled straight up:
A short while only, then I come, she carols – but is only
A fat-lot-of-good mother with a pointless alibi: ‘I didn’t
Know.’ Yet might there still be some part for me
To play upon this lovely earth? Say. Or
Say No, earth at my inner ear.