Monday, 16 March 2009


Lying, frail bones clear beneath the skin
She's like a tired old tale.

A chattering, clattering plot began
Delighting the evening hearth ‑

Gradually the energy waned,
The words grew slower,

Grey shades loomed from the corners,
Smothering the light,

But still the fire flickers,
The story lisps on.

Now she lies awaiting imprint
In a superior translation ‑
God's illuminated manuscript.

Written a few months before the Lord took her in 1977.

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