Springwood Cemetery


It doesn’t matter if my bus is late
in Springwood Avenue I stand and wait,
I’d called on mum for advice and a chat,
I talked of this and she talked of that
“It’s been a while,” I said, looking up,
holding on tightly to my old black book

She doesn’t worry if I’m busy, delayed,
she knows I keep the promises made
I love to call and take her flowers,
we chatted for minutes, I was there for hours.,
“The kids send their love, and Margaret does too,
shall I see to the grass where the weeds poke through?

It seems no time since I saw to it last,
adding more colour alongside your path.”
I asked her to mention when she saw my dad,
that I’d found a photo, which wasn’t too bad.
In fact it showed him in a decent light,
it was taken in Rome on a warm, balmy night

Dressed in uniform, looking proud,
pigeons surround him in the midst of a crowd,
it was taken in May of ’45.
The war took many, but he was alive.
“Tell him I’ve got it and I’ll see him soon,
Good Lord, the time! I’ll have to move.”

It amazes, time flies when you reminisce,
I thought I should hurry or I’d miss my bus,
But as I was leaving I heard her say ,
“We miss you so much, please don’t dash away,
We’re here for ages and there’s really no rush”
As I heard her say it my chest felt crushed.

I stopped in my tracks and spun around,
All I could see, gravestones and ground.
So, you’ll understand, why I’m standing here,
A bus may not come, but I don’t care,
If it’s late, or it’s early, or it takes for hours,
I’ll stand here waiting
Thinking
Crying



By John Humphries