Thursday, 1 December 2011
They sit warming by the fire,
married for sixty five years,
their stories knotted together
like the crocheted blankets
that cover their creaky knees.
The steady tick of the grandfather clock
in the hallway is in time with tennis balls
flicking from side to side on television,
and beyond these exertions stands
the hill opposite, the trees, grey horses and
they tell me how there is an old pair of ravens
in the woods, and tell me how the ache
in their throaty cries can sound
like voices in the mist and drizzle.
Their old eyes watch in the quiet
and in the silence and the calm
and amongst the steady ticking
there is everything they need in life,
their twilight years, alive with grace.