It was 1963,

Of that I am sure,

It was not November, or December,

I remember that.

I think it was March,

The morning I awoke,

To find my room

Filled with blinding light.

I leapt from my bed,

Instead of hiding under the covers,

And staying away from the day ahead

 There were better things to do than facing my Mother.

We were a large family,

Little money,

Less happiness,

And no gloves.

We placed socks

On our hands,

Trudging into

This wonderland.

My father

Could not go to work,

My mother

Felt he was shirking.

Mrs Parr, two doors up,

Had died,

She sat in her coffin,

In the kitchen.

I was worried

That she would smell,

As well as God

Would be waiting for her.

My Dad said not to worry,

She was embalmed

That calmed me down,

Even though I did not understand.

Later in the day

A local farmer, with a tractor

Collected her,

I think she would have thought that cool.

I was more annoyed

That I had spent hours

On my homework

To no avail.

                        _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Owain Glyn