There is a community of folk,
often invisible, overlooked
somewhat during busy days.
They move slowly, with ease,
making time seem insignificant
yet the morning’s pre-eminent.
Neat, meticulous, hair groomed,
their style ‘s perfunctory,
Sometimes there’s a hint of glamour:
an emphasized eyebrow, ruby lips,
blue-rinsed hair, spiffy cap.
Shopping is sound and sensible,
an odd small indulgence tossed in,
There are signs that ankles hurt,
a nerve pinches, an eyelid sags,
copper bangles are a panacea.
Going home is about settling into orderliness,
where waiting is routine.
Memory a visitor.
Peace is paleness, a soft skin,
cup of tea and a light muffin,
stroking a cat in a scanty room
where the air is fresh,
Love that is buried in a memory can be mined,
unearthed, brought to the surface,
raised towards the light,
and there be duly resurrected,
stroked, brushed, restored in shafts of the heart;
strung together ruby red,
glowing ceaselessly in eras
when mad men, mayhem, anarchic adventures,
hatred and greed,
Between sediments of time,
love’s cooled with tender songs, loyalty sublime,
yet stays undefiled,
intact and alive.
To revive such a love is to rebuke shadows,
defy age, the tyranny of time, foolish frailty;
love buried in memory is a rare find
yet a gift tied to time: sobering sorrows,