Grandfather
Here we sit
In the lamp light
Of her sorry...
Waiting for death.
He will not come,
He is not welcome.
There is a methodical beat
In this tired old house.
It is his heart.
It is the Grandfather
Who sits bolt upright
In the hall.
But death must not call,
He is not welcome.
She has carried life beyond
More than once;
Yet she sleeps to wake, to carry
Once again.
She bolts the door against death
Kisses him into the morning
And he will be there,
Warm and safe and old.
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