Memory hurts – our hearts are stung
But sometimes I think the pain is for
Not a particular place but more
A special time – when we were young
For freer days when we knew hope
And what we felt we had was – scope.
Already I’ve forgotten what you wore
Sunday, standing by the fridge; it was black,
And your arm supported the broom...
If only energy would stay –
Two fingers up to eighty-two –
Because you’re ill I’d wait on you...
