P
Peace perfect peace
I went to get the bread from this little old fashioned bread shop here in france,
The lady in the shop is always the same a big smile and a lovely good morning everytime you go through the door "And all offered befor the little brass doorbell mounted above the door on a clip has finshed its ringing,
As i cycle through the now smaller village "every year another shop stops trading due to retirement or the faster speed of life turning people to the larger supermarkets miles away "but full of everything you could want under the same roof and cheaper but without the same welcome as the food comes out of the shops trolly and sped along the counter "you feel its a race to pack all your goods pre finding your money /plastic card to pay and then out the shops door (no little brass bell ringing, No have a nice day from the smiling lady behind the counter)
As i ride on and see these relics "empty shop buildings that once held this village together i come to the last new building, built next to the oldest place on the edge of the village The cemitary,
All the pld people bedroom windows look over to the place most of them will end their days,
I sometimes wonder who decided to have this view for those old people to see daily ?
Poem Mist of Life
It started the day you were born,
Your father held you in his arms, He looked at you and thought "Your so beautiful "and that fresh smell of baby flesh".
He gently put you back in your cot and watched as you sucked your thumb,
He was so full of pride, He did'nt know the best was yet to come.
The years passed and you became a young woman aged 18 with a figure any of todays beastly girls would kill for,
And your face and hair all just perfect, many a mans head would turn as they stared;
Yes at 18 you had the lot.
Now you're old and in your nursing home in your peace you sleep,
The body has changed and so has your looks,
Grey hair has replaced that what was so long and fair,
Now you sleep most of the time, that girl who once had the lot is leaving this world,
Her final minutes spent in her adult cot.
Ive this box of pitures of you and your life, Everything from your birth to you becoming a wife,
Your time and effort you gave to me when you decided your time had come and i made you a mum,
All these memories I'll lock in my minds box so i can look at them in private when ever i like and i'll label the box,
The Mist of my mums life.
By Daniel Seamingway
The lady in the shop is always the same a big smile and a lovely good morning everytime you go through the door "And all offered befor the little brass doorbell mounted above the door on a clip has finshed its ringing,
As i cycle through the now smaller village "every year another shop stops trading due to retirement or the faster speed of life turning people to the larger supermarkets miles away "but full of everything you could want under the same roof and cheaper but without the same welcome as the food comes out of the shops trolly and sped along the counter "you feel its a race to pack all your goods pre finding your money /plastic card to pay and then out the shops door (no little brass bell ringing, No have a nice day from the smiling lady behind the counter)
As i ride on and see these relics "empty shop buildings that once held this village together i come to the last new building, built next to the oldest place on the edge of the village The cemitary,
All the pld people bedroom windows look over to the place most of them will end their days,
I sometimes wonder who decided to have this view for those old people to see daily ?
Poem Mist of Life
It started the day you were born,
Your father held you in his arms, He looked at you and thought "Your so beautiful "and that fresh smell of baby flesh".
He gently put you back in your cot and watched as you sucked your thumb,
He was so full of pride, He did'nt know the best was yet to come.
The years passed and you became a young woman aged 18 with a figure any of todays beastly girls would kill for,
And your face and hair all just perfect, many a mans head would turn as they stared;
Yes at 18 you had the lot.
Now you're old and in your nursing home in your peace you sleep,
The body has changed and so has your looks,
Grey hair has replaced that what was so long and fair,
Now you sleep most of the time, that girl who once had the lot is leaving this world,
Her final minutes spent in her adult cot.
Ive this box of pitures of you and your life, Everything from your birth to you becoming a wife,
Your time and effort you gave to me when you decided your time had come and i made you a mum,
All these memories I'll lock in my minds box so i can look at them in private when ever i like and i'll label the box,
The Mist of my mums life.
By Daniel Seamingway