Changes

Changes are all around
so marked the boy sitting

like the time on the clock
or the moon in the sky

or the book loaned out, again,
from your local library.

And he knows its when we stop
that we most notice changes.

But still he sits, passive, soft,
the first hair edging from his

unkissed cheek, his tender head
stuck on cold, double glazed glass.

The flowers on his mother’s grave
are changed, every day, but

time ticks on, the moon seems
smaller every night, and his

mother’s favourite book lies dusty
on your library shelf.