She is slowing now, I observe
from my corner. She glides through
the morning room tending her plants
with the long-spouted watering can.
A whisper,
‘Een beetje droog, hmmm – A little dry.’
Her fragrance settles as she passes,
a familiar swish, her skirt brushes my chair.
Too old for arousal, pleasure enough
knowing she is there.
Her legs reflect the vicissitudes that have
touched her life: stress lines, etched capillaries
of purple from the birth of our son, how
brave, so young, left alone waiting for
stitches by a Indian lady-doctor.
I don’t need photographs to remind me
of her beauty. I love it when reminded
she is taller than me. Her face radiates
character, handsome and powerful.
Friends gush.
They bring burdens to share.
She is well known. She speaks
with both the successful
and the poor in spirit.
New friends wrap bony
widow-arms around her neck,
hanging on in love.
She is up early most days, she serves with
kindnesses. She will not allow me to make
her my slave. She refuses to make
me a snack after seven p.m.
If I am irritable, snappy even,
with my grandson, she rushes
in to sweep him up. He grins
at me, knowing he is safe,
he adores her.
The grandsons’ text,
they wish to come.
She shares the message,
happy now.
Early mornings I slip
into her bed, enjoying
the comfort of her arms.
We lie together, the passion
of youth spent, we lie supine
serene – content.
