All those years of hope

Fitted, now, into a wooden six foot box.

From girlhood’s putting on

Of burdensome beauty

Into the chiffon-sixties of London town

Then Devon, and the farm.

And then confusion, the end of hope,

You were sliding down that slippery slope

Where, at last, the dreadful daylight starts

Of unkept promises, and broken hearts.

And, back, finally, to Cheshire and alcohol.

You daughter and your brother both left bereft

Both your husbands already dead,

What else is there to be said?