Ache of Time

The bleak slate cloud is pierced by the morning sun,
illuminating and pinning us in Claire’s happy kitchen.
Swirling motes of dust cocoon us in the warmth,
time and breath stop, all noise fades to silence.
We are suspended and turning in our own time and place,
I carry you, head on my shoulders, arms around my neck.
The smell of you, your hair, seeps through me, warms my soul
and nothing is said, nothing need ever be said between us.
The smell of my grandfather, earth, tweed and tobacco
is with me again, forming and shaping me still.
His calm warmth cradles us, me in his arms, you in mine,
and your gentle souls, empathetic and tender, wind through me.
Will my smell, this moment, this feeling, live within you
through the years Isabel when I’m gone?