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