Within the Home there is a room where I and others meet
-- some come buzzing in their chairs, some dodder, none are fleet;
they sing, with voices frail and slow, so like the leaves that blow
and softly waft from Sherwood's trees to fall to dust below.
Their voices croak a bit like frogs that sang with us sometimes:
the night would hug us warmly as we spoke of fresh-hewn crimes,
and we would loll against the oak, the chestnut, and the pine,
while singing ditties, strumming bows, and chugging back fine wine.
Not all of them are with me now, at least, not in the flesh,
but those days are still vivid, so that past and present mesh
when we gather round nurse Mary-Anne to sing "Amazing Grace"
-- while I admire her silently, and yearn for her embrace.