Your perfume lingers on my clothes,
like the image of your small determined face.
You watched me hug him – your husband of sixty odd years;
His thin body craving the closeness;
His eyes twinkling at the remembrance of woman's flesh;
His hand squeezing mine with relish still.
'You know I can't give him that'
you say without bitterness
'I never could.'
you visit him every day
and chat brightly
to his far-away eyes.
A pity his illness scares you so.
Your love was always of such a practical kind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.