Visiting Copyright Â© Jen Overett 2011
I did not think it would be like this -
this quiet, textured slowing of your lives,
past meals, eggs, ham, "a nice bit of fish"
layered in the air,
noise turned up to a babble,
house locked up tight against a world of draughts.
To dwell on childhood's minor wounds
is frankly self-indulgence since I've known
you've always done your living best.
You are such gentle people now,
your love as fragile as the spiders webs you miss,
turning ever vaguer corners as your vision blurs.
There's nothing to forgive you for, I've found,
yet now we want to ask you of your life and times
you're least inclined to reply,
but always rise carefully from your chairs,
discuss who'll put the kettle on, "coffee or tea?",
the stunned oh's of your eyes relaxing into smiles.
Stay here, suspended for a while yet please,
grow sweeter by the year the way you do so well,
unpick those kindly hands from spectral friends
and gently pace your rooms, eyes twinkling still,
reminding one another of this and that,
following us all with your hearts.