'Hold on to my hands.'
My father’s gentle hands,
Worn by work, a craftsman’s hands
...
I am waiting for you. Waiting for a sign.
Lost behind the screens of well-wishers, sympathy, kindness.
Well behind the ropes of the ring, out of bounds.
When will you come? Will I know?
...
You are not here.
Your smile, your laughter, gentle humour,
No longer greet our mornings,
Susan Small has packed her case and gone.
...
Summer evenings on a crowded beach, with youngsters playing,
Carefree abandon, joyous adolescence, salad days of insouciance,
A young man with a guitar sang them their philosophy,
Your eyes, full of tenderness and desire,
...