To The Memory Of My Mother by Barry Tebb

This is one spring you will not see.

The fifty roses of your spray

Smelt soft across that February day

Where trees, heavy as only crematoria

Can bear, sloped down the fallen banks

To where we waited in the chapel, me

Clutching Father Kevin’s hand, remembering

My given grace and faith renewed

In answer to my prayers, Brenda in tears,

And Joyce the sister of my years, Kim

And the others from the Home, where five

Long years you waited for this day,

Of all, the most important. Visits, letters,

Phone calls far too few, until we knew

When your last days began and for sixteen

Hours we sat, but still your will to live

Went on until our backs were turned

And then you, too, had gone.

by Barry Tebb

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