Hands Clasped

Oh aunty old,

oh aunty grey

how sad it is 

to see today

your fragile arms

and legs, and head

resting neat

in a coffin bed.

I mourn for you,

and your trembling hand

that used to stroke my head

in the grand

 

old house that was your love.

 

Youth, for you,

flew like a dove.

Innocence broke,

and your glue was tough:

Now it's attached

to your hands that are clasped

 

'round a single plastic flower.

The End

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