Zadie

In the white washed rooms, proclaimed by the sea, let me show you an heirloom, a common man working plain, his cross of Saint Anthony, swings gently on its chain, our impending sense of doom, crumpled cups at the infirmary, radios play an empty tune, the doctor's sad face, not as it should be, Papa is gone from us, where are those rutted grooves, we ran in a summer lanes, fixing hedges strong as a loon, his laughter gentle as rain, roused us drowsy from sleep, he won’t come again, loss brings such certainty.