Mother’s Ramble

The wood shuddered and every eye

listened at the stair behind the wall

The door opened and slowly

a black felt hat followed
by a long black coat

a black handbag and two black shoes

emerged turned and quietly closed the door

In her eighties she was still a mountain

crumbling now but not yet turned to dust

Lips quivered her moustache. She smiled

uncertainly at these strangers in her room

negotiated the pillar and struggled

through double doors - down steps - below the swinging sign

-

At the bar the cry went up

"She's off again. Better get your coat on"

He emerged - flustered - from the kitchen

followed by the smell of onions and hot pot

"Which way?"

"Up!"

He ran back - turned off the gas

banged flour from his greying beard

In sandals - hurrying up the cobbled street

Icy wind whipping round his toes

biting through thin checked trousers

He scanned anxiously for signs of her

'Fleet for her age - Pity her brain doesn't match'

Puffing - he turned a corner and sighed softly

Her bulky determined shape a few yards on

"Mother.. come on Mother

Its too cold to be out

Where are you going this time?"

"Home.. I'm going home"

She saw the terraced house three miles away

..its shiny windows

"Mother.. its gone

You know its gone"

She looked at this fat blank stranger

"Why are you calling me Mother?

I want Tommy

You can't stop me.. our Tommy.."

His eyes watered against the ice

His lips clamped tight shut

"Mother.. please.. come on I'll take you home"

linking her arm he gentle turned her round

Chin hairs wobbled as she cried bitter tears

He dried her face on the tea towel from his pocket

soothing as they walked slowly back down the cobbled street

"Soon have you warm again

Some tea and a biscuit"

"Is Tommy coming?"

Searching street.. face.. memory..

"No Mother - You know he can't"

She saw the strong young son in his uniform

searched the face of this grey bearded stranger

"Who are you?

I don't want you

Where's Tommy?"

"Its alright Mother

Come on - nearly home"

Up the steps under the swinging sign

Into the bar and a sea of pink faces

Her eyes screwed tight

Her face lifted

Every hair changed into an angle of welcome

"Oh.. you're all here

How good of you to come

This man will get us all some tea"

The Old Man

Into the bar

in an elderly shuffle

woolly hat casing his grizzled old head

A pint or a half

and a seat at the table

A smile when eyes caught

and the same conversation

Then all of a sudden we heard he was dead

The old man was gone

He would never more shuffle

except in the photograph which I once took

when he shuffled in

with his drink at the party

A man on the fringes

but eager and bright

A man out in daytime

where sociable chatter

could wash all around him

And after his drink he went home

with the ringing

of speech and of pleasure spread into his night

He's dead and he's buried

His elderly shuffle

is silenced for ever

- or so they all think

But here in the silences

listen - you'll hear him

His ghost in his warm woolly hat

shuffles past

Clutched in his hand

is another last drink

Spread from his eyes

is the need to exist

Dementia Settling

I don't think I'm mad but

My memories..? Run

Don't think I feel sad but

I've stopped having fun

I went up the stairs

and forgot why I'd gone

Came down and.. who cares

It revolves on and on

I can't understand

How to drive anymore

My brain's in the wind.. and

My foot's through the door

My wool hat's pulled on but..

My feet are unclad

I would wear my socks but..

Its just like my dad

If I could remember

The thing or the part

I'd rather September

Debouching debart

Than trapped in the feathon

Falanding krilane

The mourning.. the fostron

Suspicing the sane

In cough or in coffin

Take me and go off

They hide me - they're laffin

I die and .. enough

The bath's on the floorboards

It floods through the door

I paddle.. on.. onwards

To reach the far shore

With pies in the gas grill

And gas taps left on

I eat.. but the taste still..

Elusively .. gone

The world is my snap-trap

I pack up the bin

There's more to this clip-trap

The bottles go in

And pills in the waking

And pills in the night

And pills are for taking

..I must get it right

I've taken tomorrow's

The next day's as well

It adds to my sorrows

A 'medicine hell'

My cushions are splendid

Piled high to sit on

The programme has ended

.. The tele's a 'con'

Its always remote and

I can't work it out

I bawl and I throat and

I stamp and I shout

I bathe in the morning

For shops that are shut

Its somehow the evening

.. I must dress my foot

Life's ever confusing

That tray's got to leave

And who has been using..

She's dead - I must grieve

I sleep like a barmy

Old man.. and I fought

In the war in the army

In battle ..? I thought?

My tales.. entertaining

Grow wild and remote

And hours explaining

Yes.. where is my coat?

But sitting and drinking

My corner's still there

I'm chatting .. or thinking

Whenever time's spare

My friends in the pub

Are a comfort to me

And habit's the job

And just letting life be

Demented –failing lives

 Thousands sit awake at night

On watch for movements of the day

To hear the creaky-groany boards

The closing door – the moving chair

They estimate what actions keep

The one demented soul awake

And settle only on the loss

Of sound of movement through the wall

Or yet – exhausted – sleep in spite

Of night long wailing out of dreams

A Sisterhood – a Brotherhood

For years their ears attune the need

Which patched and pricked into their soul

Will still advance while there is life

Their life - or life of one they love

In retrospective empathy

Of times when love meant everything

They settle stunned by misery

And cope as well they’re able to

Give up when nothing’s making sense

To sleep in guilty nightmare’s grip

To - waking – find continuance

The fact of small destructiveness

Upon a mind once clear and bright

Shows here in sorrow – loss of self

And loss of will to wash and dress

Or to ensure that meals are made

Or eaten once – not twice nor thrice

That sinks and baths are not the same

As toilet bowls – and floors left clean

Are spread in brown – the stink removes

The will to eat in those who care

Yet loss of smell in failing mind

Allows no deep concerning thought

Of gas or food gone over long

Nor any sense in life still lived

By others round about – nor need

To gather love nor willingness

For those who care – yet cannot care

In spite of all – nor take delight

In love returned – nor hopefulness

Of better times to come.

The Man He Is

 Salt - he’s into salt this week

And farts producing foetid air

And pissing in the kitchen bin

And ‘gobbing’ in the kitchen sink

Is there no end to my disgust

It rises choking into rage

Yet he is heading into dark

The man once tenderly I loved

The man enclosing all my hope

Who loved and set me free to live

Who moved me – happy – round the earth

How can I mend this widened gap

His room – his cave – is lined with books

With newspapers in carrier bags

Withall no reading now delights

But only worries more than life

He walks – he drinks – he’s going deaf

He loses temper on the spot

Invents his history of war

Expounds to all who lend an ear

As on and on – with Hitler beat

His tanks and planes and submarines

All driven – so it seems – by him

When he was but ‘the milk round lad’

Yet deep confusions in his head

Controlled by will ‘magnificent’

Are sometimes forced to line the wall

As sympathy and need arise

Inside his eyes I see the spark

Of who he is – still fighting back

I hold my breath – try not to cry

But just admire the man he is.