The wreath sits on the garden wall it has since the funeral
she placed it there with loving hand but cannot bear to part with it
she likes the coarseness of the memory the sack cloth rub
reminding her of her widowhood she mourns the passing of the past
she aid it full flowered pink blooms at their zenith in full fed
now brown it sits in mouldering grace, a sad reminder of his face.
Dona Nobis Pacem
Memento Mori
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