Here we are, after everything,
sitting with memories
warmer to the touch
than those frail hands
that you caress with shaking fingers.
Here we are, after not enough time,
seeing those gaudy years
flapping there like flags
on a showground
empty since the caravans moved on.
And yet –
there is comfort here,
in the stillness of the frosted garden,
in the sun falling flimsy,
in the grey winter branches,
in the ribbed socks drying on the airer,
the purr of the steel fridge,
the cool, carpeted hall,
in the photographs of people familiar and fabled,
pictures of places imagined and real,
gifted trinkets and tea-towels.
In this home you have made.
In the space that separates each tick of the clock.
In the silence between us.
Let us not crowd it with words.
Let us not disturb
the comfort that is here.