I was hoping for a Pyramid...

so I could lie in state
surrounded by my earthly treasures,
gold dishes of food, flagons of sweet wine
to sustain me through the afterlife.

Or if not a pyramid, then maybe a mausoleum
with granite pillars and marble steps.
Inside, a quiet vault with stained glass
and heavenly music playing.

Or if that was too much,
I’d have liked a Norman crypt,
my carved effigy lying on a stone plinth,
eyes turned heavenwards,
bead-threaded hands joined in prayer.

I might have even settled for a wooden house
Alaskan style, brightly painted, cross embellished
honoured by troops of my descendants
keeping watch by the front door.

Or,
come on,
a stone angel would have been nice,
a brass plaque,
one of those urn things with holes for flowers.
Not much to ask.

But this.
A niche.
Posh word for a hole in the wall.

And there was me
hoping for a pyramid.

Christine Griffin