deepundergroundpoetry.com
Hot Cross Buns
Could I smell hot-cross buns,
the hearth still warm?
The kettle on the hearth cold
windows gone and door,
took the kettle by its handle
rusty, loose,as was the bottom,
no water boiled for many a year.
None for ever again.
loneliness complete,
old man and lovers gone.
left behind ghostly memories
dancing in the half-lit hut.
They were happy days at times
like us they laughed and sang
made the place all cosy.
Then the old man died
as did the fire,
chair,table,pots and pans
bed with over-coat for duvet.
So the lovers came .
I saw them both but once;
the empty hut a luxury
nowhere to hang their clothes
no blankets against the cold.
Lovers can't be choosers.
They had a need of each
searched and having found
held the moment sacred.
that,which each, we know.
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