may 21 2000

The piper played in the windy grey day
the men asked me if I wanted the third
lift the last one before the grave the
piper played as I carried her my mother

Along side the five strong men we walked
Slowly to the piper's tune we walked each
holding her body aloft in her box of pine
she died  days short of eighty six birthday

Winifred Simpson my birth mother and not
the ordinary mother of an everyday life
she was an orphan herself raised in the
cold dank dark  Dungannon Workhouse

She birthed the two of us twin babies
I never saw again ever that loss is
still felt in the bone in the soul
as we nestled in that warm womb

Winifred Simpson beloved mother
You always left clues for me later
knowing I would find them and you

The piper played at the graveside
as we lower you down into earth

I tossed a sprig of baby's breath
and three red roses for myself
Leonard and Antony the baby's breath
for Harold taken when he was eighteen

My prayer that we would know each
other again in life as we did in death
Winifred Simpson of the Clan Simpson
who lived and breathed a never despaired

The piper played on that dull Irish day
I carried her coffin on the third lift
As we lowered her dead body down
my heroic beautiful funny wise mother.