Each time we left my Auntie Jean’s flat
she would move the lace curtain aside
from the high window
and stand there, waving.
I would stop for a moment to look up,
wave back at her tiny, anxious face,
and she would tell everybody
“She’s the only one who bothers to look up.”
Each time I left my Auntie Edie’s house
on the edge of the hamlet of High Catton
to walk back home along a thin grey road
she would stand at her gate, waving.
While I walked I would keep turning,
turning and waving, waving and turning
and her slight, serious figure would wave back
until I had gone from view.
That waving has stayed with me,
still caring, still watching,
though I am now far out of sight.