Miss Anne

Miss Anne was a neighbour on my childhood street,
Reliably home, reliably neat.

Always a skirt with a jacket to match,
And when the weather turned cold a chic beret hat.

With a husband long-lost to some illness unknown,
She treated us children as though all her own.

With stories she told of long long ago,
Like seeds planted and nurtured in our imaginations did grow.

I remember her garden a meadow of colour,
An idyll where birds and insects took cover.

An idyll in summer where Miss Anne would supply,
Lemonade ice pops and cold berry pie.

These are not memories rose-tinted by time,
They are memories to treasure so they continue to shine.

So it is with regret and a step not so sprung,
That we stand at her gate with hearts and heads hung.

While lives have moved on and these children away,
We stand here together on this sad final day.

The house may be silent and our laughter long gone,
But our times of pure happiness in our own stories live on.