Tokens of our love expired
scattered on the bedroom floor,
letters torn that had once fired
passion… paper, nothing more.
They will kindle fire again,
But not to cause this heart pain,
Just a pale flame, embers, smoke,
History cancelled at a stroke.
It was simple, she’s dispelled.
I did not mourn, nor despise;
No tears shed, regrets not held,
Nothing left now… only lies.
(c)Graeme K Talboys
She lifted me up and carried me
on her shoulder. I was seven then
and must have been a fair weight.
She said to me “Son, just close your eyes
and go to sleep, it’s just a wee bit further.”
I was sick down her neck but she just laughed,
even though it didn’t smell of milk anymore
and hadn’t since way back.
She always seemed so strong when I was ill,
so why, when she was done and dry, weightless,
soulless, blameless and neither young nor old,
without her spectacles and teeth, thoughtless,
and stinking of cheap cooperative myrrh
did it take eight of us to carry her?
© Stewart Ennis, 2008
Sat in a wheelchair outfacing the sun
plaid rug tucked around his knees
was how I found him
could not hear or see
jumped in shock as I touched his arm.
Wheeling him back
stunned at the frailty of thin bones
shrunk into tissue-paper skin
found the discarded hearing aid
clogged, as always, with hardened wax
I soaked the tubes in hot water
begged from the girl who brought his tea,
replaced the battery.
The trousers were wet again
always a slight urine scent
from the catheter
he held his arms up
they dressed him in someone else’s clothes
Hungry too, he devoured his food
I spooned warm mouthfuls in
wondered how many he'd missed
unable to hear or see them come.
Choked with grief and guilt
I kissed his whiskered face
and left him there.
© Janet Coyle, 2008
