Beech leaves, copper whispers blowing in the wind

chase the rough grasses down the field.

At ninety two, I ask myself,

will she see another spring?


She rests there quiet, her busy conversation gone,

anxieties softened now, forgetfulness of age.

Beside her in the garden, dozing off,

I see her smiling in a ray of autumn sun.


She set my character in grooves

so like her own, wakeful mornings worrying;

skilled diplomacy; collusion

in the many faces of a smile; all silent now.


Will she see another spring?


Falling like leaves - the boxed up photographs

cracked vases and old - time

letters carefully stored away

in chests of drawers, yellowing archives

only she remembers, rarely now recalls;

ancient faces; raucous tones; the quarrelling;

the tears behind the racks of bathroom towels;

not her mother, remembered gentle granny her



And will she see another spring?


Suddenly, imagining her presence gone,

the house falls empty, only paper memories remain.

She sits here smiling in the autumn sun

Oh, dear - such sadness at your gratitude for my

having come.