Invisible Sounds

The days, the dinners, the afternoons

Were always your conversations

Woven into any part of words’ fabric

Stitching pieces together with stories.


A bric-a-brac of gladioli and roses

Growing in the frozen snow

A greenhouse for nurturing ideas

Potted up away from children or guests


Who came to talk and admire the garden,

Your hair turned grey and we forgot

Our part, to comment on your new style

Or fashionable walking shoes


So robust that they could skate a loch.

You heard what you expected, refused

The hearing aid reminding anyone

Who listened that you traveled the world


By taking rags and crafting a bargello.

We did listen. We were always your audience though

You saw us sitting preoccupied, away from you

Our gazes fixed elsewhere despite you.


You felt us drift away though the white swan

Returned as applique, cutting her way

Through dense fog, wings closed, a graceful

Glide through the damask shadows of age.


Copyrighted by the author


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