The scent of a Sunday

I remember the apple pies and the thimbles;
the Western films and the jingle
of your laugh on the summer wind
while the frogs croaked in the pond
and the kettle constantly singed.

Apple pies and Sunday roasts;
are now memories and pale ghosts
of yesteryear and another life;
of a loving nan, mother, and devoted wife.

*for Christine

 

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