by Grateful Fyn
She doesn't remember much of anything, anymore.
You seem not to remember me--
I was ever a voice on the phone
not there in your view.
But I remember you.
You are the Lady of Pontrhydyfen
spinning tales of Elizabeth Taylor
and King Arthur. Of Hilda, of Dicken.
You are the rider of Cheerio
talking of wind in your face
on a sunnier day.
You are the writer bringing
me back to my youth, the editor
upon whom I grew to rely.
We were a mutual admiration society
of two-- sharing writing and words
over and over again.
You are the Lady in Blue and the one
who made the Tigers breathe.
You kept a corner of grass growing for 'The Corner.'
You are stories of far-flung places--
a Sheherizad of a storyteller
and I loved listening.
I remember my friend for you are
and have been ever since we shared
stories of Camelot and a princess.
You may not remember me,
but I will always remember you.