Auntie Joyce
You crossed, at your time to cross,
Your death, not unexpected,
But my heart still feels the loss
Of the light that you projected.
You were the bottom storeys
On which my life has been erected,
The library that stored the stories
Of my childhood, recollected.
The memory of all that went before
In you, was resurrected.
Of whom I am, can I be sure
Without those stories you collected?
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