Through a time telectroscope a young poet lets us look at a poem he has written and how long the writing took. Yet we know, but he does not, that at some future time printed on fine paper his first attempt at rhyme

Will charm a thoughtful reader in a quiet autumn room, she marvels at its innocence and its unpolished bloom. The poet now grown older won’t quite recall the day— but through that time telectroscope, his youth still finds its way.

Now working in a care home she does the best she can, she goes along the corridor with lunch for an elderly man. Roast potatoes, peas and beans and a drink with lots of fizz— she knows he's not the poet, yet secretly pretends he is.

She hums the tune of marble halls as wheels begin to glide, and in her heart a memory walks softly by her side. The tray becomes a silver gift, the fizz a toast to grace— and though he doesn’t know it, he wears the poet’s face.

She sees in him the echo of verses never penned, and finds within each moment a story she can bend. For care is more than duty— it’s love in quiet disguise, and poetry, she’s certain, can dwell in aging eyes.

He hears the wheels approaching, the soft and steady hum, and wonders if the rhythm might once have been a drum. His memory is scattered— like leaves in autumn air— but something in her presence makes him feel less unaware.

She smiles and sets the tray down, with fizz and peas and grace, and though he’s lost the details, he knows her gentle face. He thinks of halls and music, of words he used to know— perhaps he was a poet once, a lifetime long ago.

One day she brings a notebook, its pages soft and bare, and leaves it on his table with gentle, quiet care. He lifts it with uncertain hands, then pauses, deep in thought— a line begins to surface, a phrase he once forgot. A smile begins across his face and he begins to jot.

She finds the notebook waiting, its cover slightly worn, and sees the lines he scribbled in the hush of early morn. Her eyes begin to wander across the fragile page— a verse about a kindness that softened time and age. He’d written of a woman whose voice could calm the air— and though he never named her, she knew that she was there.

She doesn’t leave a message, no note upon the tray, but lingers by the notebook before she walks away. The words remain untouched, just gently read, not claimed— a gift she never asked for, yet quietly remains. And as she serves the others, with tea and toast and grace, she sees in every silence a poet’s hidden face.