heirloom in the room
so now my uncles are all dead
the tapestry of men is torn
thin and faded and degraded
the golden threads of laughter
of the likely lads is drawn
crumpled upon the floor
of this empty room
for the would be mourners
the black suited men
are all dead too
not a thought rattles
over curled white sandwiches
only the whispered nods of the ladies
crinoline antimacassar aspidistra
a parlour dusted in a lonely sunbeam
wane upon a cup of weak tea
black dress gloves on a polished table
black lace veils on hats laid aside
the tide of conversation turns
around hat pins and other things
no one is the first to go as the clock chimes
silence leads the way as sadness falls
upon the thought that soon
soon maybe
perhaps
another cup of tea and a cake
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