On this emerald isle of every shade
Of green and blue beyond, I’m
Thinking of aged textured hands
In mine; wisdom’s fingers pulling away.
Nothing to tie to now but memories:
A looking glass’ reach, the air palpable
As cotton, sea through her hair,
Something left and returned to, her blue
Scarf elegantly draped, a clock’s key found
In ashes. Heat-fused silver, touching the
Mouths of family, each voice drifting
Into words that are merely sounds now.
We know what they mean, these vowels
Stretching out across years. We hang on
Every muttered, unintelligible consonant.
Even her breath, when it catches, is beautiful.
Days slow as night quickens forward while
We wait for a generation to pass into white.