Mum read obituaries

Mum read obituaries

As she got older

The Sunderland Echo

Delivered by a boy

To the door

Pushed through the letter box

The Sunday papers

Often got stuck

The front page torn,

Wet if it was raining

Soggy newsprint

Staining.

Dad fell asleep on a chair

Just a tuft of hair peeping out

From behind the sports page,

Paper and hair

Fluttering with every breath.

There were two Newsagents on The Terrace,

Now there are three Funeral Directors

Two coffee shops

Five hairdressers

And a chemist

But no pub worthy of the name.

There is no excuse

Not to have a funeral plan

So says the advertising board

Jesus has your back

Says another by the church

“I wish he had.”

Dad once said: “Mine’s a pain in the ass.”

It is a long walk to the Village Inn

Where happy hour is from five until seven

Nobody complains

Or goes to any great lengths

To stand corrected

In a discussion about inheritance tax

As no one is affected

But the tall stool at the end

Which has been dedicated

To old man John.

He sat there for thirty years or more

Rarely did he ever leave it

Until the end came

And they lifted him off

As stiff as a board.

He had a fine funeral

Dad read about it in the Journal

Which he rarely bought

As it was too dyed in the wool Tory

For his liking

Leaning toward Newcastle

Rather than Sunderland

He was always a Roundhead

Never a Cavalier

A collier

Not the Duke of Northumberland.