'Time,' she said, the Archangel said.
'Give me your last orders...tell me, tell me.'
So.
She did.
She murmured her memories of long distant journeys;
of noble trains and beautiful countries.
Of absent Godot and derelict ruins
that grew again
from beautiful
drawings.
Of white hotels
and horseriding daughters...
to walks on the fells with Knighted employers.
She whispered slowly of her son...
what he may have said,
what he may have done...
Her love for him so patiently won...
and still...so still...
... she held her composure
but breaking within
refusing to let the Archangel in.
She smiled and
Silently,
Still,
She could see -
the silly wobbly hats -
Hear distant Christmas laughs...
drinking last orders
with him.
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