on walking past our old house at christmas
I stand, a ghost outside the house that was our home.
A lonely spy, I see inside because the lights are on.
A cosy glow, a radiance I find hard to see
now we’re not there, a home no more for you and me.
The new folk there, I hope they have a happy time.
Its Christmas soon, and cards are hanging on a line
above the hearth, and there’s a tree with lights.
I stand outside, I shiver in the night.
If you came back, unhesitating to this place
in hopes to hear my voice or see my face
what would you think, as you stood puzzled there,
where have I gone, or am I anywhere?
Well darling please, don’t worry about me
I have my son, and we’ve a smaller tree.
A quiet Christmas and I’ll think of you
I carry on, as all quiet widows do.
I’ve moved away, but haven’t gone too far
so find me still, I’ll keep the door ajar . . . .