love never dies

I thought you'd be there forever; as cricketers played, our church bells threaded the nights and meadows became green once more. Braille books delivered on black sturdy bike. More bills fluttering through the letter-box and you in your scullery; whistling as sudsy fairy liquid dishes did a slippery dance on your wooden draining board.
Our tea was made from tea-leaves; strained through a drainer and into a tin. I recall how there would still be tea-leaves floating in the cup which I'd scoop away with a tea-spoon then into the saucer.

We'd chat and spin words from our heads and of the dreams of all our tomorrow's.
I was working as a clerical officer at what was called the employment exchange; my destination Washbrook Heath. These were the times when miners were on strike, undertakers and refuse men to.
How else might the working man's voice ring clear and true. I wonder if your still thinking my dearest sleeping mum how our world can be as it is now. How can it be that man is turning and crushing his other shoe and other soul deep into the groud whilst we with our voice stay mute or condemn the poor for just being that.
Surely we need to think of all the shadows from our yesterdays and find the courage to speak out.