The world's not fair today,
it is not,
sat in a garden of last of summer sun.
Not a care in the world,
not one problem - I'm reminded of that each time I think of her.
And late sun gives no warmth,
gives no colour, gives no joy,
when in another garden someone else has dared to hope.
Dared to fill her lungs,
dared to want,
dared to think of what would come.
Dared to look on deepest fuchsia bloom and see beyond.
Cruelest, wicked hand of fate to steal from one who's lost.
For J x