Cake crumbs tumble from eager lips
as small hands wipe buttercream,
smears on school trousers,
watched by dew laden pale eyes,
that sparkle still under a creased
brow and the lock of a white hair
question mark, that seems to ask
what he’s thinking.
The old face, lights up as young
legs tap in time to her favourite song.
She loved to sing.
He hears her still
when the lad comes calling, asking to
hear the old tunes , with tea & cake,
sat in a well worn chair scented with
strange pipe aromatics, the smoke resting,
spent from working the heat of hot coal.
Young eyes look again, hinting, at the
box on the hearth.
An old smile given consent and it’s opened.
Bits and bobs placed with reverence on
the chair arm, the beautiful singer, cap badges,
cigarette cards, each has a story heard before,
that young ears want to hear again
and an old voice again wants to tell.