David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
I
sent this a couple of days ago, but as usual I messed it up.
‘Feeding the Swans’
David Weaver © Word Count 164
They reckon she's ninety years or more,
all scrawny and dressed in black.
Sitting forlornly on a bench near the lake,
bitter lips trembling and slack.
She's staring down into shaking hands,
at a photo of a youthful face.
A young soldier smiling up at her
bitter lips trembling and slack.
She's staring down into shaking hands,
at a photo of a youthful face.
A young soldier smiling up at her
tells of their secret place.
Memories of passion in the woodlands,
gentle walks through the valley of love.
Feeding the swans at the lakeside,
wild eagles soaring above.
Memories of passion in the woodlands,
gentle walks through the valley of love.
Feeding the swans at the lakeside,
wild eagles soaring above.
There is no mark on his forehead,
of the bullet that ended it all.
Just the smile of a man for his lover,
as he waits for her teardrops to fall.
Ten million have covered his photo,
teardrops that won't go away.
For she will never forget him,
even though there is no more to say
The old spinster stands and shuffles away,
soon she'll depart this place.
To feed the swans on the lake once again,
with her soldier somewhere in space.
End
of the bullet that ended it all.
Just the smile of a man for his lover,
as he waits for her teardrops to fall.
Ten million have covered his photo,
teardrops that won't go away.
For she will never forget him,
even though there is no more to say
The old spinster stands and shuffles away,
soon she'll depart this place.
To feed the swans on the lake once again,
with her soldier somewhere in space.
End
