You always had style, my sister,
even when you had no two coins
to rub together, you managed
to put dinner on the table,
to look ever elegant,
and raise two sons
plus a husband,
on music and a smile.

I remember tripping over
cords attached to guitars,
microphones, saxophones
and drums, a veritable
chaotic musical house mess,
jam sessions together,
and the animals;

You were a true lover
of creatures great and small,
stray cats and dogs dined
with selected house pets,
you, too kind-hearted
too averse to turn them away.

Now as you lay sleeping,
I feel your loving presence
as do many mourners gathered
to celebrate your kind deeds
and the life they shared
at one time or other, with you.

The heralding of Spring
continues ever the cycle
of rebirth, warm new life;
an eternal truth that death
is only a new beginning
as the Great Wheel turns,

and in the Spring gardens
Gaia’s children come out to play,
songbirds and devas harmonising
in bursts of colour and chorus.

We weave your last wreath with flowers
of brilliant golds, purples and reds
and marvel that you chose, in true style,
a beautiful time to die.

© Sophia Tara