Death of the Poet

Till now, he’d never thought of it before:
how charity shops live off the dead.
Taking a pride in what he gives away,
her clothing clean and carefully pressed,
four bin-bags mark the passing of a life.
 
And life seems slight when it’s so easily
packed away; her treasured possessions –
aspects of her life – lose their relevance,
separated from their owner’s past.
 
Emptying shelves and drawers, he discovers
nothing’s really owned by anyone –
possessions outlast owners come what may
and, in death, we desert them in the end.
 
Leaving the shop, he hurries on his way,
taking, as his keepsake, all her words.
 

in collection, Changes, 2017, Dempsey & Windle,
ISBN 978-1-9074353-6-5;
first published in Keystone Anthology, 2015, Dempsey & Windle

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Off the Map

Less a road, more a country lane:
orchard, farm and yard dogs barking.
A figure slumped beneath low trees,
sunlight glints along both barrels.
 
A figure slumped beneath low trees,
orchard, farm and yard dogs barking,
possessions scattered all around:
letters and photos in the breeze.
 
His phone keeps ringing in the house,
on the stove a kettle boils,
letters and photos in the breeze,
possessions scattered all around.
 
A hole is where his smile had been –
From apple tree, a robin singing –
On the stove a kettle boils,
his phone keeps ringing in the house.
 
A hole is where his smile had been,
sunlight glints along both barrels;
from apple tree, a robin sings,
orchard, farm and yard dogs bark.
 

in collection, Changes, 2017, Dempsey & Windle,
ISBN 978-1-9074353-6-5;
first published in Acumen

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Rise / Recline

Let down by new technology,
like Icarus, you had to fall.
Forgetting that you could not walk,
forgetting how to work your chair;
you planned how you would stand again
and wriggled down that tilted seat
onto frail legs, devoid of strength.
 
Icarus flew too near the sun,
your focus, to switch on the lamp,
was equally a step too far.
They found you face-down on the floor,
collapsed and with a broken leg.
The doctor said you were confused,
the injury a threat to life
for one unsure she’s ninety-one.
 

in collection, Changes, 2017, Dempsey & Windle,
ISBN 978-1-9074353-6-5

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Visiting (at Westbourne)

Often we arrive to find you sleeping,
but greet you with the news of what we’ve done,
we talk of weather, highlights on our journey
and check your room for signs of what’s gone on.
 
Chocolates on your table mean a visit –
we’re pleased that others come when we’re not here;
clothing on your chair is a good omen –
perhaps the staff had taken you downstairs.
 
On good days, blind eyes wake up smiling –
your former, angry, vicious self is stilled;
watching as this awful illness changed you –
the self we knew is nowhere to be seen.
 
At times, you believe you’ve been out walking –
inhabiting the streets where family grew;
taking your commode out on a coach trip
revisiting the places that you knew.
 
Sometimes you’re a girl back in the thirties –
you’ve been with Mum & Dad all afternoon;
then you’re back at school giving instructions,
the taxis and the children will come soon.
 
Teaching was your life and all those children
still come to you for lessons … every one,
in cupboards, behind curtains, they are waiting
for visitors to leave this empty room.
 

in collection, Changes, 2017, Dempsey & Windle,
ISBN 978-1-9074353-6-5

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