The old lady died, yes she is thoroughly dead
at five, before first light was about to shine
on Lisbon’s sky. Skin covering tired bones, her
body free to rot and her soul has flown away.
Tomorrow they will come from afar women
dressed in black and wearing hats. Men too
In somber suits and black ties, talk quietly;
safely away from emotional women.
When last hymn has been sung, they will
walk away and leave the old lady amongst
the dead, but later meet at a restaurant.
Bereavement makes mourners so hungry
So we lift our glasses and remember her
well, this is not a day to say she was a bit
of a pain, a selfish woman obsessed with
herself. Burial is not a time for veracity.
