(I)
 
her laugh is a warm pair of arms
wrapped tight around my waist,
in the waiting room 
every face is the shape of a bluebell,
every smile as precious as bright 
yellow crocus tips 
pushing their way, gently through snow.
 
 
(II)
 
there’s a heart as big as any tumour
thumping hard against the cage,
the jangling bones hold everything in,
and then there’s the eyes 
fading away with each priceless blink,
slowly retracting to sleep,
to peace, and finally to silence.
 
 
(III)
 
at your funeral the children speak
they say, “she’s in a better place”
light falls softly through the stained glass
across the furrows above the vicar’s eyes,
and I wonder about this better place
what colour the walls would be,
how a window would swing open
a large oak bench in the centre,
the yellow eyes of Lilies scattering their pollen 
upon the whiteness of a table cloth.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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