On Earth As It Is In Heaven

Custom dictates the maid close the drapes,
this dull, rainy morning in Leamington Spa
for, Madam Farquhar, you are lately departed –
left this leafy-green crescent behind.

The grandfather clock, downstairs in the parlour,
ticks doggedly on, where you once sipped your tea,
crooked a manicured pinkie, nibbled brown, bourbon
biscuits with your rodent-like friends from the WI.

Upstairs, in the boudoir, your coffee – half-drunk,
in its bone china cup, gold rimmed, and discreet,
on the tray by your bed; in a vase by the window
a bouquet of roses shed their petals – blood-red.

ooo000ooo

Your funeral pyre, dear Madam Farquhar,
has long-since gone out, the will has been read,
and your feline companion with emerald eyes,
sits preening her fur, now considerably richer than I.

Custom dictates the maid open the drapes,
this bright, sunny morning in Leamington Spa.
On earth, as it was, and now as in heaven,
more than glass does us part, dear Madam Farquhar.