Photo: Canva.com
The last corner of toast
The old fingers shaking a little, determined to hold on,
The piece of toast, clamped securely,
the last of the jam, a bright spot of colour
the old man pauses, delaying his pleasure,
When he looks up, across the table, he sees her shadow
The smile she could not hide from him each morning at breakfast
It is like she is there, busy around him, soft chiding, while making his meal
The yellows and greens of her apron remind him of picnics and intimate meetings
On grass, under sun, and clouds etched on the blue sky, pillowy, fleeting
But he is alone now, sorting for himself
Alone, yet within him she talks without ceasing
He finds her beside him, her warmth never leaving
Her hands and her eyes the focus of his living
He gently places the corner of toast on his plate.