Mary, Maybe Mae

Her name was Mary, maybe Mae,
I asked her what she'd done today,
she looked around, but wouldn't say;
I thought she was a shy one.

A single room was all we had,
the window cracked, the curtains sad,
a simple life and we were glad
to look towards our future.

She had her troubles, as did I,
we'd often laugh, but sometimes cry,
I thought our love would never die,
but that was wishful thinking.

She came and went within the year,
she left without a frown or tear,
she didn't know I held her dear;
she took my future from me.

When I look back I feel I should,
have been the type of man who could,
express himself instead of brood;
be warmer and attentive.

And now I sit here on my own,
I blame myself, I should have known,
now sentimental seeds I've sown,
within this lonely furrow.

A faded photograph remains,
within the darkroom of my brain,
but time means I can not sustain
her features, blurred by decades.

Her name was Mary, maybe Mae,
she'd asked me what I'd done today,
I'd looked around, but couldn't say;
I'm sure I was the shy one.

By Alan Dickie