Grandfather
Your own name clings about you still
Among mouldy memories fading fast
Poor stringless marionette
Dumped, discarded,
Plonked in a threadbare armchair
The flashing images
In front of you
Signifying nothing.
Just a bag of brittle bones
Gazing down at your fragile sparrow’s wrist
Each bone outlined behind translucent skin
Each vein a twisted track.
Time drags.
Answers trail off.
No comments:
Post a Comment