Seven Years On

He never loved me, but I hoped he might;
I wrapped my heart in tissue, poised for flight,
Ignored the house and let the garden go.
The house still hurts but outside might awaken,
Dead wood discarded and decisions taken;
Where hope has failed to flourish, peace may grow.
What sucks sooner or later has to blow.

Ann Drysdale

If you have any comments on this poem,  Ann Drysdale  would be pleased to hear them.