Upon the Mock Tudor Gables and Brow
The Daffodil Beds and Ancient Bough;
The Croydon Sun lights the Croydon Earth,
To Observe once again every Silence and Birth.
And among the Pile of Brick and Stone
The Reaper had come, his Mischief shown.
For Mrs O was chosen for death,
No more to breathe her English Breath.
She had they\'d say \'A good Old life;
A loving Mum and a Faithful Wife\'.
With Years of Grief and Pleasure found;
A World in flames and a Princess Crowned.
Now the Crochet lies undone, Stillborn;
The Hearth is Cold and the Curtains drawn.
But through the gap a shard of light,
Unmindful Motes descend in flight,
To layer the Picture frames with grace;
The Family Smiles now out of Place.
The Muslim Dress laid out last Night
Now looks forlorn, a Mournful Sight:
For it\'s the Oddest things the Heart can\'t bear;
The Clothes that Wait and never wear.
And those Magazines will not be Read,
All Markers in place beside the Bed:
\'Fashion Tips and Wedding Plans;
The Horoscope\'s TRUTH for her day in hand.
With less respect the Clock Ticks by
As if to say when People die:
\'I carry on my Centuries Toil,
What\'s one more Soul amongst the Spoil\'.
Now as the Hours Rise and Fall
The Stillness stands in Room and Hall;
But faintly heard is life in Train
That moves along beyond the Pane.
As now the Milkman Whistles by;
And Mail and Junk begin to lie.
The Knock on Knock about the door;
Her fussy young Nurse it is for sure,
As up the Stairs she tumbles on
With Breaking Heart to fear the wrong.
To find Mrs O had passed in the Night;
Alone and afraid, no friend in sight.
Now so it\'s said with good intent:
\'No finer Girl was Heaven Sent\'.
For Eternal Rest is how She lies-
Under Croydon Earth. Under Croydon Skies.