Strangers Come

She had never sat with me

head in hands like that

before a tear formed in the corner

of the eye,convinced

it was her time to die.

Hands played wrong note

after out of tune confession

in the grand old room where we would spend

most of the Christmas holidays

all of us

stuffed with every indulgence

and a need for a long walk in the snow

with the old man striding ahead

as if he would out live us all.

Little did we know that seasons come and go

and she’ll make it through another winter

to teach us that Spring gives us all hope

Would be good to be little again

with nothing to get wrong

to say sorry for

and even if we did

no one would hear us

until the new year

when the strangers came

stinking of whisky

laughing at anything,

nothing.

 

© Ash Cheyne 20 August 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

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