Sister Rose

It is beauty I behold,
Rose,not a flower.
as all would think,
a nun of St Lyons
my school founder.

Tall and erect,
rose in complexion,
she greets me at the school
gate with a hug. Her radiant
smile is infectious.

She throws me in the air
I shout in fear, holds me firmly
as I come down, repeats
several times, until she lets me go
incident, I still remember.

Briskly she walks of
through the campus, rosary of beads
dangling, the cross at the end
oscillates symbolising our destiny
in and with God according to Virgin Mary.

Enjoy being her favourite ward,
I bear a fascination for her, She
calls me “dolly”, intending at my chubby,
round figure. I am unable to express
the bond that holds us so dear.