Lillies

Lilies

Only lilies are left, of a man born of Wales between war
and there’s been so much silence over the years
that’s I’ve almost forgotten the sound of his voice
and the loud beat of the big brass bands.

There will always be a mystery about a man
who barely told you a thing about himself
except in the dead of night, over tea and darkness,
little scraps of his life offered like secrets in the night.

Memories are scattered, fractured but we
pull them together desperately to hold on to,
like creosote on the fences, and a well loved lawn,
more secrets in the garden shed, and down the crescent.

There’s so much we’ve missed out on
and it’s too late to discover any more now,
so we mourn what we’ve lost with a little elegance
and only lilies are left, of a man born of Wales between war

r.l.w

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