Time does not wait,
said he to a younger sort of he
and smiled wistfully in reverent remembrance
of experiences once held in eternal glory.
Now reduced to stained photographs
held by liver-spotted fingers quaking with what was
and the potential of what could have beens.
He sees in his mind nothing but mistake;
regret blooms over, encompasses,
swallows with a sigh.

Time does not wait,
repeated he, thinking of her:
coy smiles and daisy eyes, singing a summer dalliance
in a war-ravaged country, forty some years ago.
Sings him to his last sleep with murmuring voice,
like stars descending sweetly low at night,
revealing to him her dropped facade.
Granddad's hand as trust, as faith,
as a broken promise.
and neither does she.