Sometimes, while sipping gin, a poem arrives

Sipping Gin

Perhaps not many years hence,

I'll be sitting on this bench,

Under the broad eaves of this garden shed,

Sipping gin.

And look up to see the ghost of my wife,

Working in the garden.

Or, perhaps, it will be she,

Working in the garden, who will look up,

To see me, sitting on this bench,

Sipping gin.

(c) 2012 Randy Attwood