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Poem	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.
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