What does happy look like to you?
They fill the shelves with How To Be Happy,
but it's a sale.
What if you could be happy
without the sale?
What does happy look like to me?
My parents at the bottom of the garden,
Dad investigating his old domain;
He used to be the one who
cleared the ivy, tidied the hedges,
raked the weeds and watered the green -
Time took his eyes away,
but not the pride.
Nothing half remembered about that.
Arm in arm, they take a turn
about each bed, each nook, each curve;
Mum describes the changing years
in patterns of leaves,
trading the memory of colour
with his cane; but her hands
still tell most of the stories -
he accepts this was always her way.
Golden fields beyond their figures;
My mother's laughter, the evening chorus.
Wood pigeons salute their love.
(c) Shaista Tayabali, 2018
linking here with my fellow Dverse Poets
They fill the shelves with How To Be Happy,
but it's a sale.
What if you could be happy
without the sale?
What does happy look like to me?
My parents at the bottom of the garden,
Dad investigating his old domain;
He used to be the one who
cleared the ivy, tidied the hedges,
raked the weeds and watered the green -
Time took his eyes away,
but not the pride.
Nothing half remembered about that.
Arm in arm, they take a turn
about each bed, each nook, each curve;
Mum describes the changing years
in patterns of leaves,
trading the memory of colour
with his cane; but her hands
still tell most of the stories -
he accepts this was always her way.
Golden fields beyond their figures;
My mother's laughter, the evening chorus.
Wood pigeons salute their love.
(c) Shaista Tayabali, 2018
linking here with my fellow Dverse Poets
