The Upstair's Maid

Custom dictates I close all 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.

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 I pull back 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.