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Mary Harriet

An empty room, an empty chair.
Recall to me the occupant
although she is no longer there.
In my minds eyes I see my aunt.
The family historian.
She knew much more than she would tell.
Knew when to speak when to abstain.
She kept the family secrets well.
I used to love to visit her
and listen to the tales she told
of her young days and how thing were
. In those far distant days of old.
Now she is gone, she was the last
who knew the secrets of the past.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Added by Poetry Lover
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