Pink Sheep

 Pink Sheep

Pink Sheep

She loved her grandchildren, all in her heart’s true glow,
And her great-grandchildren, memories softly grow.
Now just echoes, fragments of days gone by,
Silent in the shadows, where silent tears lie.

I no longer speak to my sisters, or their kin,
The funeral’s break, a quiet chasm within.
Few bitter words, just knowing, apart we stand,
Paths diverged, like rivers from the sand.

My brothers, dear, remain close to my soul,
But I don’t miss the others, their stories untold.
Only the first grandchild, kept close and near,
A precious bond, forever clear.

To Mum I’d said, "I’m the black sheep," she’d smile,
“No,” she’d say, “a pink sheep—your own style.”
She understood me better than I knew myself,
Her love wrapping round me, like a treasured pelt.

In her arms, I sobbed, a flood of despair,
Her gentle hold, a sanctuary rare.
And then... the silence, the unspoken ache,
A ache I choose not to name or fake.

But in her love, I found my light,
A tender glow through darkest night.
Her memory, a quiet grace—
A love that time cannot erase.

KE Dowling © 2025/12

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