In her 70s
the rigid clackof a label maker
stamped out
her neat name
to be stuck
spirit-level straight
on cupboards, Tupperware,
biscuit tins and dustpans.
Her widowed father,
open-handed helpless,
had passed her on to his sour sisters
to be raised in a house of chiming clocks
and maudlin tapestry cushions.
Even as a child she marked everything
in strict Victorian capitals:
MOIRA ELAINE LONG
in case anyone should
think to take what was hers
in case anyone should
forget (again)
where she belonged.