Monday 17 September 2012

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


3 comments:

  1. My God! Touches the right chords. You weave like no one does, ever will. So well crafted! Love much :*

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  2. Cried! For what you see, what you penned is something majority overlooks, runs over, laughs with and forgets about. I am so proud to know you! :*

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  3. Are you a painter? Or poet. I could see what u saw while writing this poem.

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