Death came whilst I was sleeping,
and took you by the hand.
You slipped away into the night,
and onto the Summerland.
My friend your memory is so fresh,
but each passing day it fades.
I'm scared one day that I'll wake up,
and not be able to see your face.
In the quiet moments I think of you,
and time rushes by to soon,
I'd never known grief to feel this way,
nor hold for so many moons.
But the wheel must turn once more,
and your spirit is free to roam,
as maiden onto motherhood goes,
so must mother become a crone.