The long thin fingers teacup clasp,
befuddled memories poured with tea.
A long life nears end’s gentle gasp
with favoured grandson here, so she
content for now in unloved home
pretends that he’ll be here next week.
And yet she knows that he must roam –
of fierce sad love she’ll later speak.
For now she talks of new routines.
Begrudgingly she will admit
the food is good. On frame she leans,
resigned to bitter truth that it
will never now be cast aside.
Inconsequential chatter masks
her yearning ache to turn back tide,
return to loved domestic tasks.

The time has come to leave her now.
To lunch she goes, and nap at three.
A last embrace. A furrowed brow.
She knows that’s it – for no fool, she.

Rupert Moreton

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