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It really doesn’t matter if the bus is late
I’ll stand leaning on this rusty, old gate
I called on my mum for advice and a chat
I talked of this and she talked of that
“It’s been quite a while,” I said, looking up,
I held on very tightly to my old black book
I know she doesn’t worry if I’m busy and delayed
She knows I’ll never break the promises I made
I love to call round and take her favourite flowers
We’d chatted for minutes, but I was there for hours,
“The boys send their love, and Margaret does too,
Shall I see to this grass were the weeds poke through?
It seems no time at all since I saw to it last,
But it adds a bit of colour alongside your path.”
I asked her to mention when she saw my dad
That I’d come across a photo which wasn’t too bad
In fact the photo showed him in a real good light
It was taken in Rome on a warm, balmy night
He was dressed in his uniform and looked real proud
The pigeons settled on him in the middle of a crowd
It was taken in the May of ’45
The war had taken many, but he was alive
“Tell him that I’ve got it and I’ll see him soon,
Good Lord, is that the time? I’ll have to move.”
It’s amazing how the time flies when you reminisce
I thought I’d better hurry or I’d miss my bus
But just as I was leaving then I heard her say
“We miss you very much, don’t dash away,
We’ll be here for ages and there is no rush”
I’m sure I heard her say it and my chest felt crushed
It stopped me in my tracks and I spun around
But all that I could see was the open ground
So now you’ll understand, why I’m standing here,
Waiting for a bus, but without any care,
If it’s late, or it’s early, or doesn’t come for hours,
I’ll just stand here

Thinking

Crying

Byron I don't normally read the poems. I have to say a lot of the time they bore me. This one made me think of my mum and how you always think you can say "see you later" and she will always be there.

Every now and again I get a memory of mum and your poem evoked one.

Byron~I just said my last goodbye to my mum 3 weeks ago and spent since then dealing with the tangible remains of a life. Your poem is a lovely reminder of the conflict of time, love, history and dialogue that permeates our complicated lives. Doing our best, is the best we can do. Thanks for sharing. Regards, Laurie

Dear Byron,

I read it and I thought. I didn't know how to respond. I read it again and I thought. I still didn't know how to respond. I wanted to respond and I thought. I didn't know how to respond. Nothing seems quite right for saying. It's more a feeling. Your poem is so real with life and memory and love, like an old trunk packed full. Then comes the revelation, the regret, the remorse of things undone and unsaid....and the realization that your time is the most precious gift you can give someone....and their time is the most precious gift you can receive. My own Dad's death is not so recent, yet certain memories of time lost live on. Your poem says so much.

~ Elizabeth

Dear Laurie ~

I'm sorry to hear of your own mother's death. It's been a very short time for you. You are so right that all we can do is the best we can do. Sometimes it takes awhile for that to really sink in and stay there. We tend to live our lives in retrospect at times like these, when so many things come crystal clear and cut through by pain. Your words for Byron are good ones. "....the tangible remains of a life" ~ again, I am sorry to hear about your loss of your mother.

~ Elizabeth

Thanks again for your kind words (i realize in my short stay 'here' i have used that phrase often). Hang in there. L