Tears not rain

Rain falls lightly in the winter wood,
Dampening stones that make a pathway through
The overgrown, the old trees and the new.
The scent of rain on grass is always good

I see the acers coming into bud.
The daffodils are waving as I view.
The lily pond is lonely without you.
We used to feed a robin when we could

After Mass on Sunday mornings then
We’d drive to woods and walk to ease our strains.
But now I cannot write, I clutch your pen.
My inspiration gives me life again.

Without your hand in mine, I walk quite lame.
The dampness on my face is tears, not rain


In the afternoon they iron our clothes

Then the bedsheets, comfort for our toes .

They give us cups of tea and watch us drink

So we can’t complain they gave us ink.

Some days I have apple juice instead

They say it’s quite ok to wet the bed.

I wonder how they dry these cotton sheets.

We dried ours on lines in our backstreet

Now there are no back streets any more

We had a water closet by the door