Seven Last Words

Body confined to one room, one bed, but

spirit struggling to roam wide and free.

   "That was, oh, years ago!"

Ranging over ninety-one years, fitfully,

remembering places long-since left behind:

Nottingham. Oxford. Somewhere a cricket ground.

   "I can't remember."

Alzheimer's seems to wipe your programming,

but a fierce, questing intelligence remains,

struggling to talk about now, and then,

to describe a rich world with a dwindling word-bank.

   "It's so nice. Look! It's lovely!"

The nouns deserted first, but still a pretty blouse,

sunlight through a window, words on a tee-shirt,

can conjure a smile, a frail pointing finger.

A son's waggled fingers are mirrored by yours,

a smile repays a smile. But pain haunts the scene.

   "It hurts"

Your right hand reaches to show the pain,

touching back or neck or other hand;

you ask for help, but medicine's hard to take.

   "Pauline. My Pauline! Pauline is my twin.

   Pauline. Pauline – you are the best!"

Her picture watches over you. Perhaps she does too.

For a while beloved sisters are back, sitting together,

somewhere remembered, high up, outside,

till cruel memory revives old grief:

   "Pauline died. Oh, Pauline."

Around the house the family's measured steps

dance their duty dance, do what they can.

Food is cooked and eaten, laundry hung;

tea and coffee regularly supplied.

Talk of cricket, travel, favourite books

distracts our troubled souls, and trains and planes,

and cars and buses deliver sons and wives,

grandchildren and the one great-grandson,

to fill the house with life and love and chatter.

And you respond.

   "Look! That boy. He was a little monkey.

   It's that lovely lady! There's Tony – my Tones.

   Dad, are you there? I just want to say,

   I love you all."

And we love you. All of us. Always.

Mum

You taught me to cook. Scarcely tall enough

to peek over the rim of the pan, I pushed back

a setting flap of omelette, copying you, 

and watched the mixture flow and fill the gap.

A toddler with his mother to himself,

(two older brothers off at school), enjoyed

songs and stories, sewing shirts for teddy,

and polishing brass with pungent Brasso wads.

You were the hub round which we turned,

the sun that warmed our orbiting lives. 

Welcomed home with oblong chocolate cake,

our bruises soothed, our stories listened to,

we never knew that not all homes are warm;

that children sometimes cry for lack of love,

or wither from neglect or cruelty; for us

home was safe haven, comfort, fun; was you.

Daughters-in-law became daughters –

welcomed: yet more family to love.

Grandchildren were cuddled, walked to school,

their cherished photos sprouting on your walls. 

Your family spread out around the world:

mere geographic distance couldn't break

the ties that happily bound us back to you. 

You gave us all. Above all, taught us joy.