Visiting Day

And the old ones,

weary, near blind, 

sit still

within their bones 

for the sad dance 

of visitors

in bright faces 

and happy shoes, 

they lean sideways 

listening to the high 

pitched voices 

of the young 

whose wings beat

furiously, like small birds 

within a well, 

desperate for flight. 

After eighty odd years

it has come to this,

kisses without passion,

whispers folded over 

into secrets, 

like notes passed 

hand to hand. 

the strange familiar faces 

that smile hello 

and yet beg farewell.