We talk of her origins, humble.
Her election to power, the riots,
songs inspired by unbending ways.
The Iron Lady, not a token,
No, she would not go gentle
We avert our eyes in her latter years,
descent to dementia, the fading.
Iron won’t bend, but melts.
Did she gaze in the glass at her softened face,
Cling to mettle or release her hold? Did she
Rage, rage against the dying of the light?