Even at eighty three and eighty four,
They still hold hands, walk with conversations,
Or simply sit the way they always did before.
They're content with silence, their objections
Only that they have to go home for tea.
Walkers by, hear them bicker and banter,
Memories spilling from mouths happily.
They like the cafes and polite chatter.
But they love the park, the trees and brown bark.
But this pretense of present tense is wrong.
Even at eighty five, she still goes out.
Every day, she is glad to walk along.
Her memories are fainter now
The smell of hot coffee in the Summer
And someone's soft words to warm the Winters.