So, here we are again,

In fevered, restless dreams,

Burying my mother, again.

How many times must I lie,

Laying the poor old girl to rest.

Anyway, it was all for the best.

And she was ninety-five, you know.

She didn’t have long, or far, to go.

So, here we are again,

In the cemetery of dreams,

Laying my poor old mum to rest.

************

And we...

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I celebrate this day alone; no one knows.

Quiet moments of solemn reflection,

 A candle or two, some genuflection.

No one else knows that I revere this day.

In anonymous, silent celebration.

                                This day, the fifteenth of May.

Twenty years ago, at a place in the past,

We shared a meal, well away from the crowd.

“It may be therapeutic!” ...

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