Cold in the echoing
church, she has to hear
The vicar's blah; the patronising sod
Goes on and on about his softy god.
Life's not like that; she holds back every tear.
Her mother's coffin squats big in the nave
And she, at fourteen, feels the power of guilt
That hurts her brain and clogs her lungs like silt.
Her stepdad weeps. Her real dad says "Be
brave."
And she's appalled by the vast power of grief,
Appalled as well at feeling such relief. |