Her Poetry
Her soft, warm voice soothed me
at 4 years old, as she sat knitting,
reading out loud the poetry
I so loved to hear.
Her agile fingers clicking needles,
her eyes darting from page to pattern,
reading Wordsworth or Keats,
softly with feeling.
At 4 years old she was my world,
my goddess and I was the mischief
who searched for the stitches she ‘dropped'
on our living room floor.
Only in dreams do I hear her voice now,
only in dreams do the words drift over me
and the woollens she'd knit
still sit behind the wardrobe door.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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