For Helen and Harry

He stared with care as fish swam towards him

in an alchemy of welcome.

Bubbles circled fish, a plastic diver, and a mermaid’s chair –

until silently bursting into air.

His daughter – mother of his grandchildren –

played fragments of half-remembered tunes,

letting fingers find paths

along the keyboard of an old piano.

‘Bach’ he said, waiting for confirmation.

She laughed. ‘Bach as it should be played!’

He smiled, his doubts delayed.

Then two nurses sat with them.

‘Do you know this tune, Harry?’ one asked

as Helen played some more.

He said, ‘it might be Handel.’

But who Handel was, he was no longer sure.

‘Where are the keys for our apartment, Helen?’ he said,

‘Harry, I have them here,’ she kissed his head.

And arm-in-arm they walked to Ward C4, diazepam, and bed.

It was Saturday night at the fish and piano bar.