Copper whispers blowing in the wind,
beech leaves 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 in 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 support.
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.
JHC 1997
