A variant on George Szirtes
She stands erect by the Home’s lounge window,
eighty-eight years in her stare;
behind her a medicine trolley, an ancient screetches,
she does not move.
There are no visitors again.
Beyond the wall, she remembers hills
Shacklow Woods, Mam Tor and tea
after barely-remembered excursions,
Red Pencil only a v-s,
now she can barely step.
Her bed is not her own, nor the
décor of her room.
On the mantelpiece though, a photograph
in an oaken frame
of a marathon runner breaking the tape.
you have any comments on this poem, Jeffrey Loffman
would be pleased to hear from you.