I went to a gathering of the deceased
(Who meant nothing to me?)
Following the mourners,dressed in the black
Of their infrequent meetings,
Side stepping the puddles of their castaway weeping.
(What was it I wonder?)
This casting down stones of forgotten endearments.
The tea was okay as retold memories
Spilled over the tables, in their reminiscing.
Clutching memento's as they departed
Should that it bring back his leaving?
The best tea service put back in its box
Would that it could have a meaning to me,
As I clung to my mothers,apron of tears.