I don't care for Feltz but the poem followed by slipping thru my fingers by abba just ruined me.
The poem for anyone who wondered
The Last Time
Friday, October 15th, 2010
The father, reading to his girl
some little tale they always read
is unaware that this may be
the last one that she?ll ever need;
she?s grown past stories softly read
by daddy sitting on the bed.
The mother with her muddy son,
kicking a football in the park,
cannot sense as they wander home
through chilly, soft-approaching dark;
this was the last time they?d come out
to kick that happy ball about.
How secret, sneaky-soft they come:
those last times when we?ll kiss it better,
hold their hand across the road
or lift them up to post a letter.
They pass unmarked, un-noticed; for
we?re not so needed any more.
So they abandon fairy tales,
and nursery rhymes that mummy sings
and leave behind soft toys ? and us -
and put away their childish things;
a loss so small. Our loss the greater,
unmissed, un-mourned, until years later.
© Lucy Berry