The voice is not lost -
not quite, not yet
for I still hear her words and the way she said them.
Through ill-fitting teeth and swollen gums
in lingo left over from the second world war
she’d insist, Won’t be long, I’m off to the lav!
and the rusted hinge of the fly-wire door
would groan in tune
to the hurried call.


I always knew
I’d remember her hands.
Inelegant nails from glove-free gardening
wedding ring thin, gold and meagre
beaten flat on the wooden rolling pin.
War-time vows promised all but diamonds
when fifty pounds
meant linen for the house.


The colour of her eyes
seemingly changed -
grey-green (or blue, with the mohair cardigan).
Porcelain skin, dabbed with rouge
above Rubenstein lips for all occasions
gave her otherwise silver, cropped appearance
a splash of life;
red definition.


Photos reflect
the face, the flesh,
the person she was; not what she meant to me,
so I say her lines, (ridiculous stuff), like
up in Annie’s room behind the clock
and my children laugh, as does she
for the voice is not lost –
not quite, not yet.



©Leigh Hay