The online portfolio and whimsical ramblings of Robert James Page

The Funeral

The girls sat in their seats,
In their pressed school uniforms.
How the church echoed with their grief,
As I walked through the doors.

I saw her on the steps,
With the stitches in her face,
But found not a single word
To complement her sad embrace.

But don't you hang around,
There's a beautiful night out there.
But on your favourite pair of shoes,
And tie a ribbon in your hair.

'Cos as that hour hand rolls by,
There's a longing in his wake,
That with each slow degree
Would wain a little heart-ache.
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