She was a complex woman
Neither a this nor a that
Sometimes she kissed her children
Sometimes she knocked them flat
She sang in the church each Sunday
Jesus had stamped her card
And nobody knew from her anthems
She'd sat in a VD ward
She'd had a wartime wedding
No cake, just bread and spam
Parachute silk for knickers
A brush, a wringer, a pram
She could flower beneath her husband
She could freeze beneath his touch
Sometimes she loved too little
Sometimes she loved too much
She saved for a lovely funeral
No rationing on that day
Her bones were veiled in linen
With geraniums, all the way
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How poignant that her funeral was probably better than her life!