When the Singing’s Done

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.

Published by Aly Writes

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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