Sheltered Poem by Joyce Hemsley
Sheltered
The twelfth year was nigh
when my blue bird would die,
but fret not, he died not alone.
I buried him with his little
green friend...out there,
'neath a shiny white stone.
I cannot feel sad
I can only feel glad,
for they know not the cold winds
that blow; cosy and warm,
they're away from the storm,
sheltered where red roses grow.
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8/27/2026 10:54:01 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
