Mother’s Day

So we were processed through
grey Lancastrian streets,
the banality of life continuing without
any respect for our appalling secret.
Ahead she lay, still,
her gaunt body empty of fight,
her skin like marble,
her hair soft and brown.

We crawled between
desolate graves of lonely people,
neglected, belonging to no-one,
the snow still lying.
Memories decaying,
from the moment of their unbearable conception.
She said that all must die.
She was right about that.

In a small bleak functional cell
with harsh stone walls
and polished pews,
a few gathered solemnly
to hear no eulogies
to declare no comfort, hope or help.
Paralysed and perplexed
In the valley of death.

Leaving her to burn,
we shuffle back into the car.
At last we celebrate.
The day is done.
The interminable abandonment
is finally complete.