A pen & ink sketch would
Have captured her wild frizzy hair
But told nothing of addiction
His voice, recorded
Would have set a place for many
But told nothing of the past
A further outpost
Once again the curse or cure
Of the one alone to tell
To talk of sand, scrub and dune
Smiles from passers by
Mobiles for those most immobile
Speak of children, who argue less
With grandparents, much as writers
Who argue more, when left alone
