This Great Field

words. mostly…

I remember it quite clearly

Pale sun painting frosted fields

And you at peace, to sadness yields

So many, loved so dearly

Butterscotch sweets in kilner jars

Full house, late nights, your Sunday roast

Full ashtrays I recall the most

What was, now framed like painted flowers

And years go by, the memories stronger

Each twisted branch still skyward growing

The things you handed down not knowing

That they would linger, loving, longer

And so the sequels spring to life

A library of stories new

And every one because of you

Mother, grandma, sister, wife

Author: Michael

Husband, dad,(ex)programmer, comic collector and proud Yorkshireman. I have no idea why im here or why im writing but i rather enjoy it. no great fan of punctuation;

7 thoughts on “This Great Field”

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