Pride of Place
That’s all I have left of her,
Ill health first came to mar,
It made its journey like on tar,
Sadness and grief mixed in a jar.
Far apart we were when she bid farewell,
When the last chime was made by her bell,
This portrait is all I have to tell,
That nightfall is sinking well.
Copyright © Thompson Emate | Year Posted 2022
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