by Samuel Skuse

I remember.
Under the dwindling light of that fading day
I watched my mother, from the window 
of the room I shouldn’t be in.
No one stops me now.

She loved her garden.

Nestled in Eden, the nurse of nature nourished.
My heart would fill to a millpond
to see her gentle hands with such willing care
bring life to the roaring colours
and blossoming beauty.

The memory lingers, yet seems resigned to leave,
like a tiring train pulling sleepily away. 
Though I chase it as far as the platform allows,
it disappears regardless.

But she remains, still
her soul echoes in these walls,
her laughter dances through the years,
quiet as a choir,
Her sermon sung.