Age does not cripple,
but the loss of mind,
the will to try, seeps
ever nearer bone.
"She's doing well" they
say, but I reach out
to touch plain need;
dropt thought, all frail and wry,
and hair and skin grown
soft. Your shrewd eyes miss
the inward shot, and
your accusing word
mumbles a spelling test
long over now,
for class since gone
to dust. And while I stroke
your poor bent back,
I hear your whispered cry.
the lost life's orphaned
thought you try, aloud
who call out "Mummy!"
to the gathering dark
and feel dawn twilight
rise within this dearth;
your mirth, your flesh, your heart, your wants grow stark
as inner haunting hounds
you toward birth.
Alice Thorpe
copyright
7 August, 1997
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