Addendum, from a Son
At nearly eighty-nine she died,
quite suddenly and alone;
on a bright mid-summer morn it was,
her loved ones far away.
Applying a touch of rouge, it seems,
her best brooch pinned in place;
right properly well turned out she was,
ready to greet old friends.
But only the bedroom mirror saw
the astonishment in her eyes;
and only the bedroom mirror caught
her image as she fell.