It was 1963,
Of that I am sure,
It was not November, or December,
I remember that.
I think it was March,
The morning I awoke,
To find my room
Filled with blinding light.
I leapt from my bed,
Instead of hiding under the covers,
And staying away from the day ahead
There were better things to do than facing my Mother.
We were a large family,
Little money,
Less happiness,
And no gloves.
We placed socks
On our hands,
Trudging into
This wonderland.
My father
Could not go to work,
My mother
Felt he was shirking.
Mrs Parr, two doors up,
Had died,
She sat in her coffin,
In the kitchen.
I was worried
That she would smell,
As well as God
Would be waiting for her.
My Dad said not to worry,
She was embalmed
That calmed me down,
Even though I did not understand.
Later in the day
A local farmer, with a tractor
Collected her,
I think she would have thought that cool.
I was more annoyed
That I had spent hours
On my homework
To no avail.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
