Almost an Elegy
When you died
Enoch Powell wasn’t there to greet you,
nor were there as many Germans
of your own age as you’d hoped.
But your husband was there,
who you loved now for his calm, rational manner,
and of course your daughter –
though you wanted to cover all the children
with wet, hairy, horse-like kisses.
It was incredible that everyone managed
without mortgages, gardeners, and shares.
When we think of you,
you are being taught how to by an angel in drag
eating thick slices of your delicious sponge cake.