(1) br br Unlike the Oak tree you age daily. br No two hundred years of death for br you to understand and perfect. br Day by day you become a little br more transparent, I can see just br how sharp and strange your bones br have become. Your eyes sparkle br with the knowledge of age, yet too br often are they dimmed by the dust br of time. Your wedding ring rest upon br your heaving chest, no longer can it br wrap itself around your wrinkled thin br fingers. Many mornings have you br embraced the sun, countless clumps br of soil have you thrown into the dark. br br (2) br br Where do you go when your eyes lead br themselves to the window and beyond. br Are you skimming stones across the br choppy Thames, or hiding from Hilda br behind the bombed out bunker. br Are you hugging Grandad in the street br as your tears wash the foriegn soil br from his war weathered face. br Are you holding me for the first time. br br (3) br br Your cigaratte placed perfectly between br your fingers hisses with inpatience. br Its ash, still in shape reminds me of a br worm turned to stone. You return to us br with a long sigh, and a silent shudder. br You light up and for a moment look like br mother, for you unlike the Oak tree br remembers every leaf that falls.