When I saw the news about you, Maggie, on Facebook,
I immediately passed it on to friends;
like a quick joke with an easy punchline
that anyone might enjoy. Then learning
that you lived your last at the Ritz,
I thought, well, that says a lot
about the legacy of care you’ve left
for older people in this country.
I dig my memory, to find your place in it,
And it slowly dawns, how your dogma
dogged my childhood, and your bouffant
over-shadowed my teens.
“A Libran, just like dad” mum would tease;
we’d see his nostrils flare. But somehow
we knew not to mock you beyond our four walls,
as many around us during those years -
neighbours, family, schoolfriends’ parents -
continued, quietly, ticking the Tory box; sanctioning
three times your steely rule.
In the 80’s we had the news on nightly,
And I learnt names like Goose Green and Stanley.
One summer, one night, on our 3rd year Juniors trip
to Cwm Pennant in Wales - after dubbing boots
and scoffing our jam sandwich supper,
Mrs Broadribb in pink hand-knitted mohair
came up to our dormitory: “Wonderful news children!
The Argentinians have surrendered!” and all my classmates cheered,
it was like the Jubilee.
I felt left out as I watched victorious 9 year olds
jumping on bunks, and heard dad’s disgust ring in my ears,
“What does Britain want with an island 8000 miles away?”
The Libran’s sense of natural justice, for seeing both sides,
yet you, Mrs T, were never one for turning.
Today, I feel detached from the tributes and the vitriol.
Powerless to prevent your lavish state funeral: spare me the details of who’s attending and what they have to say.
Your time on earth has passed Maggie, you left your job well done.
And now like the silent pit machinery, there’s nowt left for you to do.
This time next week you’ll be more buried than the Belgrano.
©Tazeem Moledina 2013
