The Tipsy Widow’s Funeral

Her grave is a xenolith of lustrous

Marble, disguised by a grassy knoll.

The funeral is tempestuous,

The vicar a fraudulent troll

Spouting his panegyric.

He didn’t know her,

Never saw the widow’s laces

Stained with spiteful traces

Of laudanum and breakfast yolk

That trickled down her chin.

No – to the village she was just a joke,

A stargazer no-one let in,

With her widow’s black,

Stinking of fags and gin,

A faint aroma, still lingering,

A reminder of her solitude

And lonely widows sorrow.

 

© Kim M. Russell, 2016

The Tipsy Widow's Funeral