by | Mar 7, 2007 | Poetry | 0 comments

On a cold November evening I’m going to the dreaming spot!
Clutching a bag of bubbles, I hold my breath, afraid, it may not be there!
Rounding the corner, waiting like a friend is the old familiar oak, the same flat stone.
I open the bubbles and listen to the sounds of the countryside.
A kaleidoscope of colour pours from my lips,
One for Dad, another for Mum, four more for my children,
Their faces smile at me as they float in the air, and I wave goodbye!


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *