After Sunday lunch,
Nan goes out to the garden
with a pair of scissors
and cuts a single flower
a rose
and she slowly walks
across the paddock to Grandpa’s grave,
the flower in one hand
her walking cane in the other.
She sits on the cool granite
and places the flower in the vase
next to his headstone
then she sings Grandpa a song.
Nan’s voice
floats on the wind,
as fragile as glass
and
as sad as loneliness
and Mum stops washing the dishes
and listens
from the kitchen window.