In the perfume fog
She lay, looking
Good and upwards.
No longer frail,
A hard object
Why not a table?
Chiselled, painted blue
A look of sanctimony
On pursed, red lips
I don’t remember
Seeing in life
A preparation
For the underground
A carnation between her hands
Light repose
I wish she’d wink, say:
‘Soon I shall be young again’
