Old man,
your clock is still on the wall
as witness,
and that warm breath is
cold on your skin,
for the day is coming
and I sense your fear,
but I cannot look away.

Your eyes see not what I see,
but look in longing,
or conjure the times of full life
that have now shrunk to this
solitude which says that there
is nothing left,
nothing of the days of
kitchen smells,
friends,
and wine and laughter.
Nothing. Still.

The clock is still on the wall
and it may have stopped,
only heaven knows,
for your voice is a plea unstated,
a fear seeping out for
what is to come,
and I see you as witness
and remember what has gone.

 

15/7/2026