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Feb 2022
It is Christmas Eve, the family is asleep, and my bedroom is empty
but for the fleeting image of her little face before my sleepless eyes
I turn back the blankets, and quietly put on my dressing gown
to make my way downstairs where the house in silence lies
My key turns in the lock, the air is cold, an owl hoots, a fox barks
the first snow falls as a thousand icy tears, her face glimmering
her lips smiling, her hair curls under the bows of scarlet ribbon
that hang inside each silently memoried falling flake, and the
night is silent and cold, and my heart within me lies hushed and dark
memories of a little sister's death,
sheila sharpe
Written by
sheila sharpe  74/F/Kegworth
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