Evelyn May Berrisford
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"Grandma, why do you write poetry?"
What answer can I give to one so young?
The understanding seemed a mystery,
As strange as light of moon, or warmth of sun,
When I was only ten short years and one. But answer him I must, this is the rule
To satisfy the young enquiring mind,
And feel someway I may be passing on
The wondrous feel in childhood that I find
Of nature, that with passing years has gone. Suddenly I start remembering
The joy, the thrill of stories told in rhyme,
The magic music of the words by Browning
And my childhood love affair with ...