A painful blow to the head
Brought me to my senses
About how I should write
These words and these verses.

Her voluminous purple skirt
Brushed gently over the grass,
Still crisp and dry in the night,
Still visible under its mask.

She looked through the window
And marvelled at the laughter
Then bent her head to the sky,
To consider the hereafter.

It sent a small shiver
Through that elegant frame;
Little did she suspect
That she would walk this way again.

Resurrection in name only;
Not so very odd.
She wrote the letter in pencil
And put her trust in God.

Not that our dear father
In heaven and all hallowed
Could have created such a man
With a soul so shallow.

Her sister said he had no heart
But when he broke down and cried
He showed some emotion
That she thought within him had died.

We are all found out,
Either by ourselves or by others;
Our minor misdemeanours
Or our secret lovers.

And when that hour arrives,
Either we shall be dying in bed
Or grateful that we suffered
A painful blow to the head.