Slow Burn
I noticed first the shaking of the hands,
The half forgotten sentence,
The lost and lonely eyes.
Then there was the burning of the steak,
The fiercely whistling kettle, long ignored.
It was winter of course
And a watery sun would soon observe
This slow and haunting dissolution.
I said let’s go out to the park,
The air is fresh so wrap up warmly.
We’ll sit with blankets on our knees
To watch the birds in flight,
The naked flowerbeds, and leafless trees.
He nodded assent but could not muster
The will to move, so I had to lead,
Locking his frail hand into mine.
There we sat to watch the world pass by
At what seemed a dizzying speed.
Dog walkers, young kids playing
Mothers meeting severally.
But his focus was on the endless sky
And the stone grey clouds slowly moving.
His lips formed the sole word why.
And I knew I couldn’t tell him.
© Paul Martin
Second Prize Winner in the 2025 Enfield Poet’s Poetry Competition