Pitching my tent in a field of dreams.

Tired eyes shut tight,

and still the stream

of endless tears, drench my face.

What did it really mean?

Pitching my tent in a field of woe,

with heavy heart.

Soft breezes blow

her scattered ashes on God’s ground.

My Mum who I loved so.

Pitching my tent in a world that’s raw.

I shake with fear.

Empty and sore,

I’m guided through God’s path of pain,

as I see Mum no more.

Pitching my tent in childhood days,

my spirits lift,

and through the haze

I feel her comfort; arms that reach me

safely through the maze.

My tent has now been packed away.

Pure solitude.

Compelled to stay.

With sodden sleeve, grief’s tears have flowed -

I’ll face another day.

I walk beyond my field of dreams.

They will return.

It almost seems

with every breath I see her face,

Mum’s smiling face, serene.