1952? I am shocked! I always figured Margeret was old enough to be my mother. And my misconception was entirely based on the wisdom in her writing. David, I was unable to log in at the site you linked, but I liked Mike Alexander's poem. I had to significantly revise my own:
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 pilgrimage. The statue on the green
was Thomas Hardy’s, 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 dogs and quail,
then turn their tails and give the grass a shave.
And there is Dorset, such a placid scene,
where a lone lady in her fitting gown
dies and her death makes all our deaths draw near.
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