Reinvention. 

 

In the corner stands my father

Shuffling in the shadows

The scent of tobacco stains the air

And he chuckles without a care

 

On the sofa sits my mother

Swift hands collecting flowers

Her smile outshines the sun

Her worries, they’ve all gone

 

On the staircase leans my brother

He is gazing at his mother

And grinning at my father

They seem to recognise each other

 

From the outside I look in

Reinventing those lost years

There is no longer any need

To shed unwanted tears. 

Clare Kinnaird, 2025.