THE STORYTELLERS CHAIR
By the fireside there's an empty chair,
But I still feel her presence there,
It's been that way forty years or more,
A testament of time, that's gone before.
Childhood memories spring into my mind,
The one's that last, the precious kind.
For me no mother could compare,
to the one who should be sitting there.
It's occupant once was full of grace,
And such a beautiful and kindly face,
A reading book open on her knee,
its pleasures she would share with me.
With the day's work done she'd take her place,
Contentment written upon her face,
Recalling the tales of long ago,
of family I would never know.
The storyteller is long at rest,
her chair reserved for honoured guest.
But life goes on, come what may,
In dreams she's sitting there today.
For my Mother
By
JOHN HAMPSON
© Copyright Reserved 2009
By the fireside there's an empty chair,
But I still feel her presence there,
It's been that way forty years or more,
A testament of time, that's gone before.
Childhood memories spring into my mind,
The one's that last, the precious kind.
For me no mother could compare,
to the one who should be sitting there.
It's occupant once was full of grace,
And such a beautiful and kindly face,
A reading book open on her knee,
its pleasures she would share with me.
With the day's work done she'd take her place,
Contentment written upon her face,
Recalling the tales of long ago,
of family I would never know.
The storyteller is long at rest,
her chair reserved for honoured guest.
But life goes on, come what may,
In dreams she's sitting there today.
For my Mother
By
JOHN HAMPSON
© Copyright Reserved 2009
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