The Death Of Mrs Ogilvy. Poem by Kevin Hulme

Upon the mock Tudor gables and brow, the daffodil beds and ancient bough. The Croydon sun lights the Croydon earth, to observe once again every silence and birth. And amongst the pile of brick and stone, the Reaper had come, his mischief shown. For Mrs O was chosen for death, no more to breathe her English breath. She had they'd say "A good old life" " A loving mum " And A faithful wife ". With years of grief and pleasure found, a world in flames and a Princess Crowned. So the crochet lies undone, stillborn, the hearth is cold, the curtains drawn. But through the gap a shard of light, unmindful motes descend in flight, to layer the picture frames with grace, the family smiles now seem out of place. The muslin dress set out last night, now looks forlorn, a mournful sight. For its the oddest things the heart can't bear, the clothes that wait and never wear. And those magazines will not be read, all markers in place beside the bed. Fashion tips and Wedding plans, the Horoscopes TRUTH for her day in hand. And with no respect the clock ticks by, as if to say when people die, " I carry on my Centuries toil, what's one more soul amongst the spoil."Now as the hours rise and fall, the stillness stands in room and hall, but faintly heard is life in train, that moves along beyond the pane. As now the milkman whistles by, the Mail and Junk begins to lie. The knock on knock about the door, her fussy young Nurse it is for sure. And up the stairs they tumble on with breaking hearts to fear the wrong. To find Mrs O passed in the night, alone and afraid, no friend in sight. Now so it's said with good intent, " No finer Girl was Heaven sent". And eternal rest is how she lies, in Croydon earth, under Croydon sky's.