Oldest Poem by Martin Pratt

You aren't straight now.
You coil in your seat like someone placed you in it
Gently, but knowing it is how you would rest.
So much wisdom and memory trapped
As if you recall
And the lines in your ancient brow deepen
As you search down paths and roads that lead to dead ends.

Smiles are rare.
But as you gaze fondly at the youngest of us, your own age fades
Perhaps it is your son, or your daughter
As you saw them for the first time
And your eyes flicker with recognition
It doesn't matter who you see cradled in your cardigan arms.

Old but not old.
Kind and accepting of all God's creatures; opinions from the future
Adoring of ink on paper, but never on shoulders
Until we didn't need to hide them anymore.
Sugar on tomatoes, chocolate on bread, plums in pastry
Such a sweet tooth, we had that in common.

No longer whole.
A stranger in a familiar coat worn thin by a lifetime.
The slow fade, such agony for all but one now unaware
As you drift towards scripture.
I hope you're where they told you you'd be.
'Wotcha', he'll say, if he's there too.