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| Thora Beryl Evans 30/06/1934 - 05/03/2018 |
My Mum is always with me.
As flour falls from my sieve, it's her hands on the handle.
As flour falls from my sieve, it's her hands on the handle.
I spread Marmite on toast, she's caring when I'm ill
Turning a hem, she slip stitches for me
Blood welling from my finger, her voice swearing
I mutter, "Effing cat!", it's her voice I hear
My fingers in warm compost, we share the smell
Pruning roses, she's telling me how
Sat in a sunbeam, she's next to me, mug in hand.
She's in every garden, and in every chore
I miss her, yet don't, as she never left.
Turning a hem, she slip stitches for me
Blood welling from my finger, her voice swearing
I mutter, "Effing cat!", it's her voice I hear
My fingers in warm compost, we share the smell
Pruning roses, she's telling me how
Sat in a sunbeam, she's next to me, mug in hand.
She's in every garden, and in every chore
I miss her, yet don't, as she never left.
What a lovely tribute!
ReplyDeleteCevie