Auntie Mary

Others talk past you. But you are not deaf
To kindness or the lack of it,
Though subtleties slip by. You simply smile,
With a child's wonder, with an old maid's regret.

Catching a word or glance your jellied face
Sets in a smile, which we observe. We grin
Stupidly. Then, embarrassed, shift our gaze
From you back to each other. The frozen stream
Of conversation thaws, melting our silence,
But isolating yours. Your lineaments,
Drawn tight with joy, sag and collapse again.

Your loveless life knew just one brief affair:
A cyclist, who pedalled off one bright morning,
Whistling, to the war, and not returning,
Leaving you to rub and scrub away
His image with your housemaid's brush.
But memories are not effaced this way.
They lie deeper than all the dust and grime.
And now you wait in stillness, trapped by time.

Just yesterday, in city crowds, you trembled,
Suddenly more naked, more alone.
Your clumsy fingers clutched my arm. Your fear
Shook that frail domicile of skin and bone.