The old woman, the old man.

Held his petite fingers

They kissed his forehead

Filmed him take his first ever steps

At around their knees he would prance

Pulling on grandma’s hair

With grandpa’s glasses he would play along

‘Ride me on your back grandpa'

And the old man would kneel

'Sing me a sleep song granny'

And her breaking voice sung melodies

Today it’s his twelfth birthday

All his friends are home

The old man, the old lady though would sit alone

In a place un-cherished and unknown

Holding on to a knitted sweater

With the grandson’s name sewed in blue

She wipes a silent tear

Trickling down grandpa’s cheek

Holding his arm, just being there

Looking at the broken wooden door

In a rickety old harbour for aged

They wait for their son to pick them up

For the place which was once their home

Winter, the only season their life understands

Whilst they sit and wait to transcend

To a world where there is no place

To a world with no time

Where they can watch down from the skies

Their grandson singing the rhymes

They once sung to him

Before the transient nature of time

Turned the ones they raised

Forgetful and unkind