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
I was your chosen sacrifice.your Christ.
I did not deny you even twice