A special poem I wrote, after I’d taken my Lady to the hospital for the last time, on the day of her 65th birthday, thirteen years ago.
Hello Carole, time goes by, and my heart has not moved …
Under The Snow
We emanate to a birthday.
We deflate to a final day.
Birthdays, they all come, they all go.
Birthdays, in the sunshine, under the snow.
Birthdays, slow to mature, quickly an eon.
Birthdays, before we are born, after we are gone.
Birthdays, hanging on by a breath.
Birthdays, nailed to a cross ’til death.
What does it all mean to be alive and cry?
What does it all mean to live and to die?
Ivor Steven © April 2025




































