The Diary

Hidden in a bottom draw; a little book of words.

Just notes,or poems, or sometimes thoughts

That no one else has heard.

I did not know who wrote it then,

Nor why 'twas hidden there.

But inside was a violet, pressed with love and care.

This book was someone's secret life.

Of longs and despair.

And it told of joys and sadness

And a person's loving care.

Then I closed the book and put it back

Into it's hidden space.

I thought I knew the penship of that hidden face.

The book was mum's from long ago

When she was just a lass.

So let the book remain ther

In it's accustomed place.

She married dad and as time passed

She raised a family.

But I wonder who'se the violet from

When she was twenty three.