There is a hint of rain in this place,
Where each memory contains
A thread, tenuous and fragile
Sinewy and frail.

There is even time to take
My mothers diary,
So long lost,
Perhaps I think it would be best
To leave it lie,
If the reading of her thoughts
Would let her die.

I think of the great space
Between us now.
The silent web of years,
That has carried her away,
And I wonder
If I am strong enough,
To play the music of my dreams
And bring each note
That are but echoes,
Back to her again.

Yes mother I would take you
By the hand and lead you,
Though there is much you
Would not understand.
Sitting here, the rain
That had long threatened, begins to fall
Every drop mocking me
Laughing as I stumble
Listening for your call.


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