He warms the pot and plates the cake,
mutters that she used to bake.
She smiles and waits in the window seat.
He brings the tray, shuffling feet,
up the hall past memories framed
of family lost and family gained,
appears with a flourish at the door
like a warrior with the spoils of war.
She smiles through a gentle sigh,
the tray like a trophy held up high,
then to the table, the clink of tea.
He slumps beside and pats her knee,
like a teenager in his 90th year.
She can’t see, he can’t hear,
he’s on meds, she’s had a fall,
but they bump along despite it all.
Because along with Battenberg and tea,
they still love each other’s company.