Graveside Musing.

You remember it snowed
At your Myrtle’s funeral;
The mourner’s were like
Pieces of Christmas cake:
Dressed in blacks and blues
With a white icing of snow
On hats and heads.

Myrtle would have smiled
To have seen that;
Maybe she did
From her little space
In Heaven, you muse,
Looking down
At the small gravestone,
Years later now,
And seeing how
The stone has worn
And moss has grown.

You come as often as you can
To put flowers, pull weeds,
And say a few prayers.

Myrtle never made
Double figures,
Like her dad
In his gambling games.

Just made nine and a quarter,
You mutter, taking a slow gaze
Around the surrounding graves
Next to your daughter.

The little vase has been smashed,
The pieces lay amongst the dandelions
And buttercups and other wild flowers.

You want to stand here for hours
Just to speak and stare
And wonder what might have been
Had death not come when it did
To take young Myrtle
From the hospital bed
All thin and white with no hair
And off to who knows where.

You sigh and light a cigarette,
Reflecting on the words on the stone: 
We love you. We will never forget.

And you at least have not,
Her father went off
With that young flighty girl.

You wish him hell,
Hope he will rot.

The snows have gone now,
The mourners gone
To mourn at other graves,
No doubt; the bouquets of flowers
Kindly sent or given,
Are all gone,
And just memories remain,
Like small drops of blood
On a white gown that stains.