She flew, didn't walk.
She knew, didn't talk.
Heard, didn't listen.
Shone, didn't glisten.
She is, never was.
No reason, just because.
Angels cried, very sad.
She smiled, very glad.
"Why so glad?" they inquired.
"Why not?" she said. "Why so tired?"
She was his, not mine.
But it's okay, it's fine.
I'll live, I'll love.
She'll fly, a dove.
YOU ARE READING
A Golden Afternoon: The Collected Poetry of the Late Matthew Packard
PoesíaThis is simply a collection of previously unpublished (and unseen) poems written by my late Uncle Matthew. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed finding them.
