A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to hospital for the last time, on the day of her last birthday. I’ve slightly edited the wording overnight, and now a general birthday poem for all to enjoy, and posting here, on this “my day”.
Under The Snow.
We emanate to a birthday.
We deflate to a final day.
Birthdays, they all come, they all go.
Birthdays, in the sunshine, under the snow.
Birthdays, slow to mature, quickly an aeon.
Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone.
Birthdays, hanging on by a breath.
Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death.
What’s it all mean to be alive and cry.
What’s it all mean to live and to die.