Round and round, the horses go, dizzily, breathlessly, taking me with them,
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes high, sometimes low.
The barrel-organ music plays a jolly tune, but a discordant sound to my ears.
I step down from off the merry-go-round and sit, on the wooden bench beside your
grave in the quiet, country churchyard.
The Autumn sunshine warms my face and, pondering the pace of life,
I feel close to you again in this peaceful place.
A late foraging bee passes by in front of me,
A solitary bird flies across the blue and cloudless sky.
Tears well up, filling my eyes,
and a light breeze teases my hair.
I miss you so.
I think of what might have been had you lived and what is, instead.
I think of the poppies in London, blood-red and remember, and wonder,
Have I the courage to climb back on the merry-go-round again,
round and round, up and down, high and low, fast and slow?
