they lined up

in their smart suits and executive hair

outside the foundation stone

of a nations ruin ready to eulogise

to heap praise upon a legacy

of division

 

the traffic slowed

and the tempers frayed in a burg

where there is never enough

most had left by 8PM

save one expecting maybe

a ghost?

 

returning at the earliest light

most had moved into town

I popped my head inside a truck and said

"she's still dead you know"

one yet remains

awaiting the stone to roll back

 

my wife, the daughter of a miner,

council bread and butter raised

nods, obligingly at the checkout

as she scans the customers cloying praise

"its nice about the flowers isn’t it"

“yes” she replies “they look great on my fireplace”

 

she reads people writing

the miners were greedy and she spits

"tell that to those with emphysema,

white knuckle and crippled joints

go stand by the graves of the hundreds that died

better still come here and say it to my face"

(note: I live on the road that Margaret Thatcher wa born on, the home of the Roberts Greengrocery. Yesterday and today the town and road have been assailed by media from around the world. What they expected to find I do not know)