An ivory brush he runs through her grey tresses,
a flannel, hot water, refreshes her face,
her feelings of gratitude anyone's guesses
he gives a sad smile as she stares into space.
His hands are the guides who will take her and lead her
through myriad functions and chores of the day,
take turns with a cup,knife or fork as he feeds her
calming touch when she rocks, firmly grip when she sways.
No action is taken of her own volition,
arms flop in her lap like a puppet, no strings,
he lives her day for her and needs no permission
for such is the license that years of love bring.
Engaged, dawn to dusk in one-sided conversation,
now sadly resigned to the sound of one voice,
spark of recognition there's no indication
but still he keeps talking, for he has no choice.
Another day over, another year passes,
anniversaries come with no reason to cheer,
there will be no more music or raising of glasses,
Crystal out on display just one soft silent tear.
But the bond that's between them is still strong and unseen,
though their faces contrast,hers is blank, his is kind,
for love is still there to the fore, always has been,
his shines from his eyes, hers is locked in her mind.
Each dab of the flannel, with each stroke of her tresses,
each slow ticking minute through which he must tend,
with these tokens of love every day he confesses,
these bouquets of hearts that are hers 'till the end.
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2019