Poetry

Bubbles

By 7th March 2007December 9th, 2019No Comments

On a cold November evening I’m going to the dreaming spot!
Clutching a bag of bubbles, I hold my breath, afraid, it may not be there!
Rounding the corner, waiting like a friend is the old familiar oak, the same flat stone.
I open the bubbles and listen to the sounds of the countryside.
A kaleidoscope of colour pours from my lips,
One for Dad, another for Mum, four more for my children,
Their faces smile at me as they float in the air, and I wave goodbye!

Margaret Pedley

Author Margaret Pedley

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