Memento Mori (Poetry)

Her hand, arthritic, clumsy as a claw,
raked deep inside the handbag's bulging maw,
clutched at a yellowed keepsake and withdrew
the flattened remnants of a baby's shoe,

grimy from her nicotined caress,
the fevered stroke of fingers that confessed
their favouritism for her youngest son -
the grenadier (retired) so doted on.

All words of comfort shrivelled on our tongues,
embarrassed sympathy in silence hung
between us - seeing grief so calmly shed
in quiet contemplation of the dead.

The small memento fifty years had pressed
into a focus for controlled distress,
more soothing than a photograph. She touched
that leather sole which signified so much

and sighed - the only sound to fill the room
that awkwardly respectful afternoon
and later, by his grave, we watched her stand
bemused, the brittle shoe still in her hand.