Behind the patio sliding doors
The city sounds Expire,
And in her cosy living room,
Nan sits alone. Retired.
The twin electric bar burns one,
Soft the blanket upon her lap,
Her cigarette ascendt to dust
Oblivious she naps.
Yet when her doorbell rings
she's always there
To listen, love and help with aged ear.
- - - - - -
The crematorium entrance hall
Bedecked with wreathes and cards,
The warming sun upon the hearse,
The gardens paved with flowers.
And slow the mourful journey home-
As minutes turn to hours.
Now her doorbell knowone hears
Reverberant on empty ears.
Silent Table, bed and chairs.
2007-01-09
22:33:08
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16 answers
·
asked by
Spiny Norman
7
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Other - Arts & Humanities