David Wood (07 April 1950 / London)
Waiting for God
Sitting by the window looking out
Over the manicured lawn green,
Black birds and robins did shout
Their calling, wanting to be seen.
Memories were his only comfort
Of his dear wife of years gone by.
Life now seemed to be so short,
So lonely, he’d sometimes cry.
His family seldom visited him
Waiting for God at the farm
They came once a month on a whim
In the hope he hadn’t come to harm.
Surrounded by others the same age
Old and infirm in their ways
Writing their last paragraph on the page
Waiting at the end of their days
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