The years are a tide on this shore That has ebbed into distance Leaving row after row of bedstead Washed-up like driftwood Where I am called in the dead of night. I lock the door behind me And sink into a fabulous noise That rises like the keening of gulls Scattered on a seaweed wind. Here all our grandparents stand dribbling And half naked on the smooth vinyl, Staring with the tired eyes of fish. Forgetting what was forgotten They part as I am led to a bed in the corner. For some reason the smell of pine forests Thick with evening drifts from the blankets Clutched by fingers bleached bone white, But she is pale and pulseless now With the smashed crab of nothing-to-be-done From where she fell Matted in her hair. I fill out a form that she does not need And notice in her notes a photograph: Faded and brown, a young woman With smooth skin and a squint Smiling at something Beyond the camera. Pigtails and lace collar dated 1920, insane. Back behind the curtains I lift the sheet clear of her face And meet the same smile and cloudy eyes Staring over my shoulder To what was always out of sight, Just behind this moment, Her seventy lost years eddying into night.
Charles Montgomery, Consultant Psychiatrist, Exeter.
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