SONNET

Some old souls trek to the banks of the Ganges
Smiling, knowing they will die an auspicious death
But you passed away on a theatre trolley
Plastic tubes and scalpels witnessed your last breath

Spirits who travel to burn by the rising sun,
They have hope; yours was at best unsure, unknown
No holy river running through Basildon
Just the A13 by the crematorium

I did not take the train to see you down there,
Like a deserter back to his regiment
Why trouble them with my funeral prayer?
With my robes flapping against final judgement

You are dead, and there is nothing more to see
Not my mother, only a friend in eternity