I think of her sometimes when I lie in bed,
\nfalling asleep in the room I have made in the roof-space
\nover the old dark parlwr where she died
\nalone in winter, ill and penniless.
\nLighting the lamps, November afternoons,
\na reading book, whisky gold in my glass.
\nAt my typewriter tapping under stars
\nat my new roof window, radio tunes
\nand dog for company. Or parking the car
\nwhere through the mud she called her single cow
\nup from the field, under the sycamore.
\nOr looking at the hills she looked at too.
\nI find her broken crocks, digging her garden.
\nWhat else do we share, but being women?<\/p>\n
Notes…<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I think of her sometimes when I lie in bed, falling asleep in the room I have made in the roof-space over the old dark parlwr where she died alone in winter, ill and penniless. Lighting the lamps, November afternoons, a reading book, whisky gold in my glass. At my typewriter tapping under stars at… Continue reading Marged<\/span>