Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2021
Around his shaking fingers he wound that single, silver tress
that cord of silken silver that her beloved face once caressed

He could feel its softness around those quivering fingers
as, upon the coffins satin lining, her scent still lingered

He wept, recalling the dark nights when for her warmth he longed
seeing her face amongst those of the mourners who thronged

And knew, as his tears fell, that that single silver tress of hair
it would bind him to the one who lay forever sleeping there
sheila sharpe
Written by
sheila sharpe  74/F/Kegworth
Please log in to view and add comments on poems