12. Feb, 2017

Remembering

When we were young,
Grandma wrote down
Her childhood's poems
For me.
In one moral tale
Of two siblings,
When the younger (you)
Faltered at a brook,
Over stepping stones,
The older one (me)
Held out a helping hand
And all was well.
I wish
That this had turned out
To be.
Hands were held out,
Not just by me
And seemed to be taken
By you.
But a different river
Was soon crossed then,
With a broken bridge,
No passage back,
And all was lost.

Ruth Enright