Grass,
green and yellow shaded,
now dappled in failing winter sunlight,
mirror wet tones drip splash,
across sandstone flags,
steadily,
darkening as they stain,

Voices drift from somewhere,
Elsewhere,
on laughter light and easy,
low now,
as cattle call to arms,
Bitter wind running rampant outside, 
forcing its way into places unvisited,
uninvited yet cuttingly present.

Playing with numbers,
as dementia makes numbers 
into disconnected numerics.

Back and forward, east west,
life inching toward closure,
easing those involved,
to the edge of the precipice.

Waiting for a last intake, 
wanting it as much as not 
willing it for him,
for me,
for us,
time was,
time is,
time out