Moving On, a poem. Dedicated to Alice Douse.

Moving On

 

He came for her this morning,

my Granddad,

for my Nan, and

she was already waiting for him.

 

There was no talk of the bus or time tables,

nor was there inconsequentiality to be said,

(for words are an irrelevancy when the heart speaks,

and – when it speaks loud – then that conversation

becomes self- proclamation, becomes a window,

then becomes us all, every one.)

 

She stood up, because she could,

my Nana,

(without help at last),

and they went into the  garden.

 

The beauty there surpassed all thought, Archetypal

in Purity and Serenity, and it fitted neatly about her,

enfolding both in a relaxed haven of green that was

more symbolic than actual, but nonetheless,

pleasing, and she enjoyed it completely, (although

she noticed the Gooseberries were in need of a prune.)

 

She left, her hand held,

together,

my grandparents,

because they had places to go.

 

We wanted to watch them go, marvel

at the timing, the incomparable moment

that made a pause of our lives and the realisation

this was forever and that we were transitional,

that we were merely the observers of life, and

she had lived more than us and still had more to do!

 

 

He came for her this morning,

my Granddad,

for my Nan, and

she was already waiting for him.

 

IMG_3886

Saturday 23rd August, 2014, 6:30 am

My Nana passed away at the age of 101 ¾ . Wow.

 

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