"Three smashers strutting" is this photo's label,
which scarcely justices these armoured women,
suited in confidence, wasp-waisted elegant,
wary of men, convention, circumstance,
yet willing to oblige, insofar as it suits them.
"Grief is the price we pay for love"
proverbed the queen, whom in a way you pattern.
Contrariwise, Mary, grit was your tribute.
Your love was gritty, fiercer than any sandstorm
kinder than seashore, generous. Your board
we vagrants feasted at right royally, no waif neglected,
blissfully ignorant of the muttered "F-H-B!"
scurrying behind us, as we hung on barbs of wit,
the gravy laugh that told that us we had scored.
Oh, how I miss that laugh, tart wicked twinkle,
unflinching Christian heart. You were the mother
for whom I languished, cutting me no slack,
sneaking away your first-born. Your tribe
spreads glorious now- sharp, funny, loving,
a score of smashers strutting in your cortege.
Glance back in joy, O Christian soul,
as you pass on to glory.