I have just watched a little of the funeral of Margaret Thatcher ( I have to confess to a penchant for pomp).
Although I had an admiration for her in terms of her achievements as a woman, I hated everything she stood for, and I hated what she did to the country I love.
This is a quick reaction to the funeral. More a collection of thoughts, than a poem, but one which I think I will tweak once the month is over.
In death, as in life,
She is surrounded by pomp.
Nothing so becomes her as the leaving.
All the moaning minnies have been kept away
As she departs.
Emerging into the sun like a miner
Coming off a 12 hour shift.
Thank god St Pauls have paid their Poll Tax.
A strong European contingent
in the congregation.
But the Union Jack is draped over
everything, saving her from EEU nonsense.
She will soon be catching up with
Ronnie and Augusto. Talking about
old times. Reminiscing about the Belgrano.
No doubt she believed she loved Britain;
Was doing it all for her own good.
How can you love a country,
when you hate most of its people?
Oh well. Ronnie and Augusto are not
the only ones she will meet. Heaven or hell.
She will finally have to confront those moaning minnies,
those greedy miners, those young Argentinian sailors.
And she will finally know her country.