Poetry

(for Minette)

My own dearest love, she is unloving and cold
and she has no cares of the things of this earth,
once her hair gleamed like gold
and she was lovely from the day of her birth.

Far too quickly her life was swept away
and it was special our meeting
like the sunshine of one lovely day
and her presence was only much too fleeting.

Her leaving stings and keeps on stinging,
while in this spring myriads of birds are singing.

Now there is only a kind of emptiness
and I am not able to forget her
as there was bliss in every caress
and sometimes I wish I had never met her.