Their

Their hands, once dusted with summer’s earth,
Now trace the quiet edges of memory’s hearth,
Where laughter lingers in the amber light
Of tea‑stained mugs and soft, forgiving night.

Their voices, a chorus of gentle sighs,
Weave through the garden where old roses sigh,
Each word a thread in a tapestry sewn
With patience, kindness, and the seeds they’ve sown.

Their footsteps echo on cobblestone lanes,
Past bakeries where warm scones regain
Their buttery scent, a comforting blend
Of home‑grown hope that never will end.

In every glance, a silent promise lives—
A steadfast bond that the years forgives,
For “their” is more than a mere pronoun’s claim;
It is the heart’s own quiet, enduring name.