Pitching my tent in a field of dreams.
Tired eyes shut tight,
and still the stream
of endless tears, drench my face.
What did it really mean?
Pitching my tent in a field of woe,
with heavy heart.
Soft breezes blow
her scattered ashes on God’s ground.
My Mum who I loved so.
Pitching my tent in a world that’s raw.
I shake with fear.
Empty and sore,
I’m guided through God’s path of pain,
as I see Mum no more.
Pitching my tent in childhood days,
my spirits lift,
and through the haze
I feel her comfort; arms that reach me
safely through the maze.
My tent has now been packed away.
Compelled to stay.
With sodden sleeve, grief’s tears have flowed -
I’ll face another day.
I walk beyond my field of dreams.
They will return.
It almost seems
with every breath I see her face,
Mum’s smiling face, serene.
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