Clouded by cobwebs

these days

you tell the same stories

and ask for news

forgotten by the next clock stroke.



You are no longer the apple peeler

whose hands never faltered

in wielding blade or teacup,

whichever was needed

to cater for me.



Though I bare your name

the syllables slip

and you must grasp

at faces I resemble

in the hope you’ll catch a memory

before it fades for good.



You were seventy-seven at my birth

and yet you stood

in photos with me,

constant in attention and love.



I do not know,

a world without.