By Phyl Lobl
You’ve gone, and years have passed as years they do
on calendar’s impassive blocks of time.
If in my mind sweet memories of you
turn clock-time back, is that a mental crime?
‘Do not look back’ I heard my Mother say.
She knew such grief and worse than is my share.
I do look back to where my comfort lay.
I loved, and I was loved, and I still care
to think upon the times where ‘joy was king’.
The open sea, a boat with sail unfurled.
So many songs to write and play and sing.
We were united, facing winds and world.
Alas such joy is never meant to last.
Age comes, and far too soon the past has passed.