Of an evening in my childhood Headed home in the dark Buckled in between my parents The three others in the back We were tired and often cranky Jostling for leg room Through the boredom in the quiet He’d start to softly sing.
He’d sing of gamblers and drinkers Travelling men and their women Things that made no sense To minds too young to care But that voice there in the quiet In the darkness and the stillness I’ll carry with me for a lifetime When the singing's done.
I bake. I write.
What goes better together than a good story and a delicious fresh-baked pastry? Nothing. And I can give you both. Grab a hot cuppa and join me.
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Aly Writes 