It is dainty still, my nan’s foot
As it dangles off the bedside over the fallen slipper.
It is angled down – a dancer’s?
Elegant. On point.
Or perhaps it no longer strains
Against its own weight.
Her ankles are slim, legs thin;
Trimmed to bone, sinew and skin.
But dainty still, not ill
As she’s lately been.

It flicks unconsciously
Like a flighty bird
Twitching against the cold
Seeking its warm wool/polyester mix nest,
Not the bare branch of the leg
It’s frozen to.

I can help.
But don’t.
Yet.

From here the skin is velvet soft
It has fabric sheen without shine
And as the foot twitches, the wrinkled cloth
Pulls tightly over lumps of bone and vein.
It is yellowed custard crust,
Or thinner – the skin only she could make on a cup of tea.

She struggles to free the other foot
Swathed in bed clothes.
I pick up the slipper
And put it to the foot.
Dainty still?

The nails are gnarled
Toes hooked, three look broken,
Where before I thought them demure.
The skin; in places leather cracked and worn,
Else greasy silk too lightly worn
Over a web of bone and veins that don’t warm
Hence slippers in bed, I suppose.
These talons crane out inarticulately at their warm pray
Let drop from their spastic clutch.

I hide the foot in the slipper, make it snug
Then it hides itself back, up, inside the sheets.
Her cheeks colour. Mine too.
She no longer fancies a tea.
I’ll go soon.