Mother 27 August 2016

Just listen to the dust beneath your feet; Its gentle voice whispers through the spring grass Even its warming breath makes you feel complete But its chill touch, still a sad remembrance… Do you know where you have been brought? she said Here where sad stones are with fresh flowers dressed. Vibrant friends lie still, each in a neat bed, With etched words speaking of eternal rest. Snow drops swaying white against gritted grey And crimson crocus spring in gravelled ways. But dry dust is scattered in cold clay And a vase of flowers in the breeze sways. Here your mother lies as the world ever turns; But still in mother nature, dust returns.