The smell of vanilla, sweet;
So very very pure.
In the mornings she'd leave the room,
It would float on the air.
Light and graceful
Like her movements.
Born from a flower.
A sickly treacle like, loveliness.
Swirling gently from room to room.
Gliding just behind her.
"What did you have for tea?" I ask.
"Chicken and chips my favourite!" she says;
"And guess who came round?
Auntie Alison and Uncle Michael."
Saturday morning T.V. and a book before bed,
Her life.
Drifting to sleep she giggles.
