During Easter week, while I'm taking some holiday, I'm putting poems rather than regular blog postings. This is a piece of nostalgia, for no particular reason other than I heard a song of hers the other day.
Scent of The Roses
I remember Mary O’Hara at the Albert Hall
On my cassette tape, I never saw her there
Back in the days when Paul Hogan said Y’All
And Wogan was on TV, with fairly long hair
Her husband died young, she became a nun
And lost was her music, magic harp playing
Wrote Scent of the Roses, her life was done
And we mourned her, as she left to be praying
In summers so fine, the past was so bright
The beaches so full, the sea full of swimmers
And a heavenly harp, painting music of light
A last concert playing, a sunset that glimmers
I remember Mary O’Hara at the Albert Hall
On my cassette tape, I never saw her there
Back in the days when Paul Hogan said Y’All
And Wogan was on TV, with fairly long hair
Her husband died young, she became a nun
And lost was her music, magic harp playing
Wrote Scent of the Roses, her life was done
And we mourned her, as she left to be praying
In summers so fine, the past was so bright
The beaches so full, the sea full of swimmers
And a heavenly harp, painting music of light
A last concert playing, a sunset that glimmers
But she came back again, a Harp on the Willow,
Yet it is past I remember, her music aglow.
Yet it is past I remember, her music aglow.
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