Windows

Aidan Matear

He looks like my dad but older, greyer.
Denim, boots, flat cap – proud farmer’s uniform.
Skin with wrinkled texture of a prune,
face hewn by age and time,
weather beaten by nature’s forces.
Calloused hands, rough as sand.
Stooped back – from years of labour.
Humming an incessant tune,
looking for his hand-clock.
Missed a button on his shirt,
gravy spilled down his tie.
Memories faded like polaroids.
Eyes have changed,
still blue, but they don’t see me.
Blank windows into an empty mind.

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