Saturday, 20 February 2010

A Real Poem

In a Care Home, where my auntie’s dying,

the carpet’s red and orange, colours warm.

I have to be so careful – what I say,

the way I glance – or auntie, desperate, swoops

like a hawk ‘Why look like that?’, ‘Take

that smirk off your face!’ and, trapped by my gills

in falsehood, censure, fault; memory drops, blood pounds

and I get it, why, her tiny room is warm.


  1. Hi John,
    In such short verse, you have said it so well for those of us who have been there. Touching!

  2. Wow, great imagery. So very true, also.