by David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930)
Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?
Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mothr downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady.
I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.
Published by Robin
I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.
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