On this freezing December Thursday.
She sits silently hunched
Over her one-bar electric fire.
Dismal north Manchester light
Seeps through her tightly drawn curtains.
Her entire world was broken
When the burglar came
And will never be the same.
She sips her sweet tea shakily.

She gazes up at the mantllepiece
A young man's face
Looks out of the cracked glass
His face smiles at her
Across the years.
Tears come
Flooding her wrinkled cheek. 
I hold her hand in mine
Entwine her fingers.
No words can reassure her
Tho I talk of locks, alarms, visits.
But I can see she's back in 1945
When she was so glad to be alive
and kicking.