A holiday today, a long
weekend
Mum wouldn't know it,
every day is the same now
Spring too, the parade
of flowers has begun -
the heavenly sweet
citrus sepals of Daphne,
late Winter really, she
didn't sense it pass
the temperature is
constant in the nursing home,
she knows hot and cold,
sometimes she is so cold.
The golden wattle
shouts her Spring proclamation.
Mum's senses
deteriorate, where once she could hear
the sweet swing band
surge and feel the tight
syncopated rhythm
quicken her pulse
all so long ago, now
she looks significantly
as though you've said
something
of import, her surge
and swing evanescent
evading her recall,
with the salty wild pheromone
of a dancing partner,
'never the same each night!'
she'd toast and laugh,
a mischievous twinkle
in her eyes, that right
now are shutting down.
The pink mouthed
magnolia beseeches the sky.
'I might tell my
secrets with a top up of wine'
and she clutched them
close for their warmth in the night.
The cherry tree weeps
all her tiny white tears.
She strains for words,
names, then in a moment
of clarity, 'I know, I
know what I must do.'
