My grandfather's clock strikes,
but no time passes here.
He knows each mote, each hue,
where sunlight hits each morning and eve.
Here my melodies are echoes; my metaphors rehearsed.
Only in the garden do seasons pass,
do flighty visitors come for lunch.
With my grandmother went movement and now all is preserved, still, suspended.
My grandfather is waiting:
the dust in his study as ashes in her favourite flowerbed.