The value of the beholder

We were getting my disabled mother dressed, or changed and ready for bed - I no longer remember which.

It's an effort, for her, as much as for the carers; and when my dad does it, occasionally with my help (as used to be necessary over weekends and holidays), the effort multiplies all round.

Anyway. Eventually we get there and she's ready - for the day, or for the night.

"You are so beautiful!" my dad cries, having stood back to admire our achievement.

She slumps in the wheelchair, dejected by her helplessness.

"If only it helped," she retorts glumly, "the beauty".

"Oh," he fires back, "It helps me! Me it helps that you are beautiful!"

And so Beauty gets to smile again, and everybody can go on.

Round world

In the airport departure lounge,
queueing at the boarding gate,
my eyes skim the range of travellers -

two businessmen stand in their own electricity of discussion behind me;
an obese woman, in a sapphire-coloured gown, bats lashes;
a lush-haired man speaks gentle Afrikaans beside her ...

my roving gaze is arrested
by a gesture: a soft-edged,
hairless man's right arm arcs up and

over his stubbly scalp -
his fingertips drop
to stroke it, and then

his hand reaches easily in
to the loose, blonde strands at the neck
of the soft-edged woman on his left.

Several combing caresses rhythm him
- without a word or glance -
into her confidence.

My last look sees her
nestling into his shoulder:
a beautifully unhandsome couple -

toad-mouthed, both; relaxed; happy
in the roundness
of their moment's world.

- Silke Heiss, 13th March 2019

Guinevere's gift

Looking for suitable cloth upon which to stitch this morning's poem, Norman's and my Covenant Tree - the splendid copper beech, whom he called Guinevere - gave me this moment of heaven.

Today's Wolverine

Experiment. A poem spread over three images. Is that asking too much of readers?

God's Deciding