The Cenotaph - Ursula Roberts

The man in the Trilby hat has furtively shifted it;
The man with the clay pipe has pushed his fists deeper into his pockets;
Beparcelled women are straining their necks
To stare.
Through the spattered windows of the omnibus
We see,
Dumb beneath the rain,
Marshalled by careful policemen,
Four behind four,
The relatives of dead heroes,
Clutching damp wreaths.
Within the omnibus there is silence
But for a sniff.
Then a plump woman speaks,
Softly, unquerulously:
'I wouldn't', she says,
'I wouldn't stand in a queue to have my feelings harrowed,
No myself, I wouldn't.'
The omnibus swerves to the pavement,
And the plump woman
Prepares for equable departure.
'But there,' she adds unbitterly,
'I often think it wouldn't do
For us all to be alike.
There's some as can't,
But then, again,
There's some, you see,
As can.'
Beautiful,
Plump woman,
(Plump of mind as well as of body)
Beautiful is your tolerance
Of human idiosyncrasy.
When my impatient feet would tap in irritation,
When my breath would break out in abuse,
When my scornful lips would frame themselves
(At the vices,
Or at the virtues,
Of my neighbours)
Into a sneer only half pitiful,
May I remember you
And murmur with serenity,
Without intensity,
Without virulence,
'I wouldn't,
Not myself,
But then, again,
There's some, you see,
As can'.

Ursula Roberts