Under the ground, on a Saturday afternoon in winter Lies a mother of five, And frost has bitten the purple November rose flowers Which budded when she was alive. They have switched on the street lamps here by the cemetery railing; In the dying afternoon Men from football, and women from Timothy White's and McIlroy's Will be coming teawards soon. But her place is empty in the queue at the International, The greengrocer's queue lacks one, So does the crowd at Mac Fisheries. There's no one to go to Freeman's To ask if the shoes are done. Will she, who was so particular, be glad to know that after The tears, the prayers and the priest, Her clothing coupons and ration book were handed in at the Food Office For the files marked 'deceased' ? |