The vicar takes a final deep breath:
'God be with you.'
Through the pane behind him,
The world is dead,
The sky dun.
Shuffling to leave the church,
They move with care,
Carrying sympathy before them
Like bowls of water,
Spilling a little now and then.
'Cunt!'
Oh Lord. Our Tourettes cousin.
Hands jump to mouths,
Lips are bitten, eyes averted.
A single titter escapes and is coughed away.
'Cunt in a cassock!'
With that, the months of horror dissolve,
And she lies in her coffin
Holding her sides
And shaking with laughter.