I wrote a poem about Margaret. It isn't a patch on Alicia's. But we are all engaged in a gulf of grief occasioned by our tears, heartfelt or not.
i.m. Margeret Griffiths
A lady lived in Dorset, thrived in Poole.
She died last month but she would love this tale..
My dad and mom sought Thomas Hardy’s grave,
made pilgimage. A statue on the green
boasted of Hardy, mayor of the town.
“Wrong Hardy,” said my father with a sneer.
There are some stories never learned at school,
pastures where sheep can look at men and quail,
even if they are pissing on a grave.
Then there is Dorset, such a placid scene
where an old woman primly in her gown
dies and her death makes all our deaths draw near.
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