THE GARDEN BOWER
You haven’t changed, she whispered,
You’re as you were before;
You mean the day I passed away,
You’re in the clothes you wore,
Yes, she pensive smiled until,
A tear welled in her eye;
Hush my dear, I am quite well,
Its better you don’t cry.
It’s good to see you one more time,
And in our favourite bower,
She handed him a posy;
It was your favourite flower;
There are flowers in the meadows, dear,
You’ll find me there one day,
I’ll wait until you to come to me,
We’ll watch the birds at play.
I’m lost but you will leave me,
I wish you’d stay awhile,
We thought there would be time to spend,
Before our final mile;
Don’t weep for me, my true beloved,
One day will come the hour,
The tears will dry; you’ll take my hand,
And share again our bower.
Michael Walsh Poetry
