Sue Benwell

Author, Poet, Journalist

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May 26, 2017 By admin Leave a Comment

Mum

Weathervanes turned,
but life remained the same
on that last day.

The wind made promises
it could not hope to keep
and all seemed bleak
on that last day.

Sparrows dust bathed
in rose beds,
Red Kites reeled above gardens
in an ordinary way
on that last day.

Wordsworth’s daffodils
no longer danced for you,
your voice no more would
echo mine, or finish lines,
on that last day
in early May.

Butterfly Patrol
Striking A Chord

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