I hold her ninety year old hand,
Bruised from the cannulas;
I can see my mum’s thin skin
No longer hides the blood within.
I stroke her hair and think of her
Comforting me when I was the boy
Who ran into her lap spouting blood,
A brush attached to my skull,
With a large rusty nail. 
From then on, I wanted my hair
Cut short enough to reveal the scar. 
And now as we sit together, equably,
I let the tides of memory wash over me.
Our love, so often unspoken, is real
And true, and will just have to do, for now.