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.
-
Author:
Kevin Hulme (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 16th, 2026 18:40
- Category: Sad
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange, Paul Bell
Offline)
Comments5
Very nicely written a tender poem of passing. Well done and a fave
Thank you. And for the fave. 👍
Most welcome Kevin
Hello, Kevin,
You are a skilled writer and storyteller. You have captured the Grim Reaper's merciless toil in the passing of Mrs O in this awfully sad poem and yet there is a beautiful quaintness in your style as if to dry one's tears. Excellent!
Fond regards,
Tony.
Thank you. Appreciate your Comments.
Being an Admirer of John Betjeman; I try to see the Story in his eyes. Or Pen .
Glad you enjoyed it. 👍
I wanted to turn that damn clock off, Kevin. Then I thought about being in that house without even that sound...and I definitely didn’t want that either. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
That's very deep about the Clock.
Appreciate you Reading this and the fave.
It's a thing you probably don't see now. The curtains drawn, telling you someone had died.
Life still goes on around the dead, but the grim reaper has gone, moved on.
So true about the Curtains. Not many Pause in the Street when a Funeral Pass's either.
Thank you for Reading it and sending a Comment.
There’s a deeply affecting portrait of an ordinary life ending in terrible loneliness here, with the unfinished crochet, the unworn Muslim dress, and the family photographs capturing the small domestic details that make death feel so brutally final, while Croydon carries on outside as though nothing has happened. The keeper is “The Clothes that Wait and never wear,” because those few words hold the poem’s grief in a simple, devastating image: a life’s plans and ordinary routines remain in place, waiting for someone who will never return to them.
Thank you Thomas. I Remember when my Mother died and saw her Coat hanging on the Peg : Waiting. It's the Little things that Pain.
Thank you for Reading. And your response.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.